


have you seen him whom my soul loves

by veronamay



Series: Priest!Jensen 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Blasphemy, Break Up, F/M, Happy Ending, Implied Relationships, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Instability, Priests, Religion Kink, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Repression, Suicide Attempt, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-08
Updated: 2008-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew 26:41—"Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak."</p><p>Priest!Jensen. Mechanic!Jared. Small-town USA AU. Jared and Sandy are the golden couple, meant to be, never questioning that they'd get married and be together forever. And then the new priest arrives in town, and Jared starts questioning everything. Jensen, on the other hand, has a hard enough time trying not to think about what he really wants to deal with the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warning and tags. The religious themes and content are outright blasphemous and not meant to be representative of reality.
> 
>  **Story by:** [](http://veronamay.livejournal.com/profile)[**veronamay**](http://veronamay.livejournal.com/) , [](http://nu-breed.livejournal.com/profile)[**nu_breed**](http://nu-breed.livejournal.com/) and [](http://lemmealone.livejournal.com/profile)[**lemmealone**](http://lemmealone.livejournal.com/) (from an original idea by [](http://miss-begonia.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://miss-begonia.livejournal.com/)**miss_begonia** )
> 
> Many thanks to [](http://miss-begonia.livejournal.com/profile)[**miss_begonia**](http://miss-begonia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://nu-breed.livejournal.com/profile)[**nu_breed**](http://nu-breed.livejournal.com/) , [](http://vileseagulls.livejournal.com/profile)[**vileseagulls**](http://vileseagulls.livejournal.com/) , [](http://lemmealone.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lemmealone.livejournal.com/)**lemmealone**.

**PROLOGUE**

When Jensen was two, his parents died in a house fire that burned the whole property to the ground. There was nothing to salvage: no clothes, no photos, no mementos of family. It all went up in the blaze.

There wasn't anyone to take young Jensen in, after he was released from the pediatric ward. The hospital staff kept him there a little longer than they should have, hoping a relative would turn up to claim the sad-eyed boy in the corner room. Nobody ever did.

If Jensen's parents ever had arrangements in place for Jensen's upbringing—a will, or someone to be his godparents—all traces of them were gone. So Jensen went into the system, as a joint ward of the state and the Catholic Church. The hospital staff gave him a farewell party and a cake, but Jensen didn't seem to care.

* * *

When Jensen was six, he met Chris. Jensen was a quiet, lonely boy, good at keeping his head down and desperate for a friend; Chris was a loud, brash twelve-year-old, already an old hand at surviving life in the system. They took to each other like ducks to water. Jensen needed someone to look up to; Chris wanted someone to look after.

For the next twelve years they were inseparable. Chris protected Jensen from the inevitable bullying and teasing his shyness attracted; when he was old enough, he showed Jensen how to sneak out at night to go to the movies and how to get in for free. Jensen soaked up the affection and illicit education like a sponge, and got Chris out of the inevitable trouble that occurred when Chris got caught. They covered for each other whenever Father Jeffrey was on the warpath, whether they were to blame or not (and they usually were).

Jensen always shared his shamefully stolen candy; Chris always wanted some, no matter what.

* * *

When Jensen was thirteen, he started having dreams that scared him. He confessed them to Father Jeffrey, fearing he was bound for hell. Surely such heated images as he saw at night were the product of Satan, sent to tempt him. Father Jeffrey tried to assure him that it was all perfectly normal, that he was meant to be having these dreams (though Jensen should resist the urge to act upon them). Jensen didn't quite believe him. He did a lot of penance and tried to ignore the whole situation, but he had trouble meeting Chris's eyes for a while until the dreams went away.

* * *

When Jensen was eighteen, Chris left the seminary. Jensen didn't stutter and he didn't cry, but there was a sour taste in his mouth that lingered afterward for days. Then Chris called from his lodgings in his new parish—his first _real_ parish—and Jensen smiled for a week.

* * *

When Jensen was twenty-two, Chris came to visit. He looked older, different, more settled and mature, and for a moment Jensen felt unaccountably shy. Then Chris ruffled his hair and pulled him into a headlock, and everything went back to normal.

Jensen took Chris along when he celebrated his ordination. It was a weird night, full of pain and tension and things unspoken, but a good night nonetheless. Chris left the next day, and they didn't speak for a month. Jensen wasn't surprised.

* * *

When Jensen was twenty-seven Chris fell in love, and though Jensen didn't know it, that was the moment everything— _everything_ —changed.

 

* * *

 

"Come on, baby, come on, please ..." Jensen chants under his breath, fingers clenched hard on the steering wheel. The truck lurches and shudders its way up the hill, cresting the rise with a human-sounding sigh. Jensen echoes it with a sigh of his own—he sees salvation in the form of a gas station a quarter of a mile down the road. If there's a God—and Jensen's collar says he believes there is—that place will have a mechanic attached to it, and Jensen can get the truck fixed sometime before the next millennium. He can hear Chris's voice in his head, tsking and saying, _Told you to get it looked at, boy_ , and grins despite himself. That's Chris down to the bone: always trying to look out for him, but perfectly willing to point and laugh when Jensen fucks up anyway.

He's distracted from his thoughts by the truck, which is making a new, and very alarming, wheezing noise that sounds like it might be choking. Jensen isn't an expert on cars; he can do the simple stuff, oil changes and spark plugs and he knows how to check the fuel lines, but that's about it. Whatever this is, it's beyond his ken, and he's only thankful it's happening now and not a hundred miles back. He can coast down the hill if needs be, and find someone to help him push the truck into the gas station. It can't be that far to walk to the church from there.

"Come on, baby," he croons to the truck, petting the dashboard. "Just a few more yards and you can stop. I'll get you serviced this week, I promise. New oil and plugs and points and everything, okay? Just make it down the hill for me."

The truck doesn't reply, but it rattles gamely onward, and Jensen crosses his fingers. The gas station is starting to look like the Holy Sepulchre, which is vaguely blasphemous but entirely justifiable, after the day Jensen's had. He'll make it up to God later—just let him park the fucking truck in one piece.

He eases into the gas station, edging around the pumps and taking one of the half-dozen or so empty parking slots at the edge of the property. There _is_ a mechanic here; he can see the workshop on this side. There's a beat up old Jeep on the hydraulic lift, its undercarriage on show, which makes Jensen feel slightly better about his Ford. He slides out of the cab and heads for the gas station first. He needs caffeine.

A bell jingles overhead as he steps inside, cool air hitting him in a blast. The truck doesn't have air conditioning, and it's in the nineties outside; Jensen sways in the sudden chill for a moment, drinking it in. A rusty chuckle from the end of the room brings him out of his self-induced coma.

"Been seein' that all day," says the thin, rangy old guy behind the counter, not unkindly. Jensen grins and walks down toward the fridge, snagging a bottle of water and a Red Bull.

"It's pretty nasty out there," he agrees. "Especially if you're on the interstate with no air-con in a truck that won't go over fifty."

"That yours?" the fellow asks, jerking his head at the window. Jensen sees the Ford parked outside, dilapidated and pathetic. He shrugs and nods.

"It ain't pretty, but it gets me from A to B. Or used to, anyway. I think it's on its last legs." He tilts his own head toward the mechanic sign. "Reckon I could leave it here, get the mechanic to look at it?"

"Depends on where you're goin'." Shrewd brown eyes look him over from head to foot, taking in the black shirt and pants, the cleric's collar and rolled up sleeves. Jensen fights the urge to stand up straighter; he's not gonna be intimidated by a guy with hippie hair. "You gonna be stopping long?"

"Hope so." Jensen hands over some change for his drinks and uncaps the water, drinking thirstily. When he lowers the bottle, he smiles. "I'm the new priest."

"Are you now?" The guy doesn't look surprised. He returns Jensen's smile and reaches a hand over the counter. "Pleased to meet you, padre. Name's Manners. You can call me Kim."

"Jensen Ackles." He shakes Kim's hand; it's a firm, dry grip. "Are you one of my flock?"

"Sure am. Haven't missed Sunday Mass since 1983," Kim replies. "And then it was only on account of a horse kicking me in the head and knocking me out for three days." He nods at Jensen's truck. "You leave that here, I'll get Jared to have a look at it and call you in the morning. You need a hand getting your stuff to the church?"

"That would be great," Jensen says, relief filling him. "I can hire a truck or something, or ..."

He trails off when Kim starts to bristle.

"Don't mention money to me, padre," Kim says brusquely. "You just head on into town and find Father Bob, and I'll see you get your gear before dinnertime." He shoves a pencil and notepad over the counter. "Write down your cell phone number, if you've got one, and I'll call you if there's any trouble."

Jensen meekly writes down his number as ordered, hiding a smile at Kim's sudden switch to mother-hen. He's kind of used to this by now: being so young and looking like he does, people tend to react by either trying to bed him or fussing over him. He's learned to ignore the former and appreciate the respect inherent behind the latter, even when it sometimes makes him want to scream.

He has no qualms about leaving his gear behind; there's nothing in the truck worth stealing. Growing up in a Catholic orphanage means he never developed much of a yen for material things, so besides some clothes and books and a couple of CDs, there's only his vestments. Precious as they are to him, they're not worth anything to anyone else, so Jensen nods as he pushes the notepad back across the counter.

"Where am I likely to find Father Singer this time of day?" he asks.

"In the diner," Kim says, checking his watch. "He stops in there for a slice of pie most days. Go straight down the hill and take your second left. You can't miss it. If he ain't there, he'll be at the church, and anyone can direct you there."

"Thanks," Jensen says. "Guess I'll be seeing you."

"Sure thing," Kim replies serenely, and waves him off. "Now stop hogging all my air-con and get."

Jensen grins and slides back out into the stifling heat, grimacing when his shirt immediately sticks to him again. He's dying for a shower, and it's still at least a half-mile walk to town. He casts an accusing look at the Ford and sighs, hoping this isn't the last he sees of it. He can't afford another car on his salary. With any luck, the mechanic—Jared, Kim called him—will be able to fix whatever's gone belly-up. Jensen agreed to a vow of poverty in theory, but that doesn't mean he wants to walk everywhere.

"Onward, Christian soldier," he says under his breath, and sets his feet toward town.

* * *

The kid isn't what Bob was expecting.

He doesn't know what he _had_ been expecting, to be honest; maybe someone a little older, a little grey around the edges. Someone who needed a quiet place to hide out while a scandal died down. There isn't much on offer at St Joseph's in the way of ecclesiastical glory, just everyday mundane flock-tending. That's the way Bob likes it, but then he's been doing this a while now. He's learned the value of a little peace and quiet. The younger guys, they all want to rewrite the Scriptures and be the one to find the next Dead Sea Scrolls or the Gospel of Judas. They're not yet content with serving the Lord in smaller ways. That part comes later, after they learn about the evils of pride.

This new guy, though—Jensen. He seems different. When he trudged up the drive to the church and asked politely for Father Singer, Bob thought he must be a lost traveller asking for directions. It took a minute for him to get past the road dust to see the collar and the rosary dangling from his belt. Even then, Bob wasn't sure this wasn't some sort of set-up until Jensen introduced himself, mild as a lamb.

It's been a while since Bob had anyone to supervise around the place. He's not much for hierarchy beyond the bare minimum, so he sets Jensen straight on that first off.

"I'm not your boss, son," he says when Jensen starts in with the _monsignors_ and _sirs_. "I know what canon law says on the subject, but nothing sets me off quicker than a lot of bowing and scraping. Most folks around here call me Bob, or Father Bob for the young'uns. I don't see why you can't do the same. And don't expect me to run your life for you; I might be a priest, but that ain't the only reason I never had kids. We'll split the duties fair and square, agreed?"

"Yessir," Jensen stammers out, and flushes when Bob raises an eyebrow at him. "I mean—yes, Bob. Sounds fine to me."

"Good." Bob turns to leave the sacristy, gesturing for Jensen to follow him. "Where's your gear?"

"In my truck. It broke down just as I got here, so I left it at the gas station. Mr Manners said he'd get the mechanic to take a look and bring my stuff round tomorrow."

"Mr Manners, huh?" Bob snorts back a laugh at the idea of anyone calling Kim _mister_. "That's fine. Jared's a reliable soul. He'll do right by you. In the meantime, let me show you where you'll be hangin' your hat for the foreseeable future."

He leads Jensen outside to the rear of the church, where a small cluster of cottages sits on the edge of the lot. Bob lives in the furthermost one, close to the graveyard to the east of the church itself. The middle cottage is office space, where he keeps the parish records and undertakes any counselling that can't be done under the seal of the confessional. The westernmost cottage has stood empty for a while now, since Bob's predecessor retired.

"This is it," Bob says, throwing open the cottage door. "Fully furnished, everything works, and if it's anything like mine the water pressure's not half bad." He claps Jensen on the back and frowns in concern when Jensen winces away slightly, rolling his shoulders.

"Looks great," Jensen says with a brief smile. "Thanks. I really appreciate this, si—Bob."

"Comes with the job," Bob replies, returning the smile. He heads for the door. "Speaking of which ... you take a few minutes to look around, get familiar with the place, and then come next door to the office and we'll talk about it, okay? I'll put some coffee on."

"Okay." Jensen's already wandering into the tiny hallway connecting the living room to the bedroom and bathroom. "I'll just be a minute."

"Take your time."

Bob leaves him there and goes next door, nodding to himself. He likes this kid. First impressions aren't always correct, but he's got a good vibe about this one. Still ... Bob quirks an eyebrow heavenward and crosses himself, just in case.

* * *

Jared eases into the cab of the truck with a sigh, trying not to spread grease everywhere. He's sitting on plastic sheeting to protect the seats, but it doesn't hurt to be extra careful. And they're out of that nifty hand cleaner, the kind that doesn't make his skin flake like crazy, so he's had to make do with hot water and paper towels until he can get home. It hasn't really worked all that well; there are streaks of black sticking stubbornly to his arms and probably more on his face. Jared's just thankful he remembered to put his hair under a bandana this morning, otherwise he'd be lining up outside the barber shop tomorrow.

He wraps a couple of paper towels around his hands and starts the truck, shaking his head as the engine whines and rattles to life. Too many miles on the old girl; she's just about done in. No matter what he does, how many parts he replaces, this truck is on its last legs. Jared wonders what the new priest will have to say when he gives him the bad news.

It's a short drive to the church, only a mile or two straight through town. It's a small town; a body could walk it from end to end in a day and still sit down in time for supper. Jared likes that idea. He's lived here all his life, and he knows every inch of the place. He's never really wanted to go anywhere else. San Antonio is just fine for scratching his city itch when he gets it, but Jared's never thought of moving away. Everything he knows and loves is right here; why would he want to leave?

Speaking of things he loves ... Jared grins as he passes by Sandy's house, thinking ahead to tonight. He's nervous, which is kind of stupid, but it feels right. He _should_ be nervous. Never mind they've known each other since he could talk; tonight he's going to say four words to Sandy, the most important four words he's ever spoken, and he wants to get it right. If he hurries, he'll even have time to shave again before dinner.

The church is old-fashioned, one of those with housing attached for the clergy. Jared coaxes the truck off the main road and along the packed dirt driveway to the side of the grounds, circling around to the cottages at the rear where Bob and the new guy have their digs. It's weird to think of someone other than Bob standing at the pulpit on Sundays, or hearing his confession, but Jared figures everyone's gotta retire sometime. The new guy will probably take over from Bob when it's time, if he sticks around that long.

He pulls up in front of the third cottage and honks the horn, double checking to make sure he hasn't dirtied anything as he gets out. It's heading towards sunset, the sky turning red-gold in the west, purple creeping up in the east. The breeze is picking up too, for which Jared is grateful. He pulls the bandana off his head and shakes out his hair, letting the cool air play through the sweaty strands. It'll be a pretty night, he thinks, gazing up at the stars. Just as it should be, for Sandy.

The front door of the cottage opens, and Jared turns to look as the town's newest inhabitant edges outside. His first thought is, _Wow, shy much?_ The guy is hanging back as though Jared's about to leap on him. His second thought is a wholly appreciative, _Damn_ , which explains the whole hanging-back thing. This dude—Father Jensen, Kim said—is _seriously_ pretty: big green eyes, pale freckled skin, the kind of mouth rarely seen outside porno. An entire generation of girls probably cry themselves to sleep at night knowing this guy's off limits.

"Father Jensen?" Jared says, with his friendliest grin. "Hi, I'm Jared. Kim said you'd be wanting your truck back as soon as possible, so I thought I'd drop it off with your stuff on my way home."

"Oh hey, thanks. I wasn't expecting you to bring it back until tomorrow." The padre comes forward a bit, standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. "What's the verdict?"

"I'd give her Last Rites if I were you," Jared says, figuring it's best to be straight with him. "The body's still in pretty good shape, but the rest of her's a goner. I can try to fix her up if you want, but it won't do much good for long. The engine's just worn out. You'll have to put a whole new one in to keep her running, and that won't come cheap."

He watches half a dozen thoughts flash by before the padre shakes his head and grins a bit.

"Call me sentimental, but I like her," he says, and Jared feels an answering grin tug at him in response. "I can't swing a new engine in the short term, but what can you do to fix her up for now?"

"There's a few things that ought to help," Jared says. "I can fit a new carburetor and flush out the cooling system, see if the radiator needs replacing. And there's something iffy about the fuel line, too. Those'll do for starters. You just let me know what your budget is, padre, and we'll go from there, yeah?"

"Okay." The half-grin turns real, and Jared blinks at the force of it. "Jared, right? I'm Jensen. 'Padre' makes me feel like I'm in a bad Western."

Jared reaches out to shake Jensen's hand, realising too late that his hands are still all over grease. He sputters an apology while trying to shake and pull back at the same time; Jensen's laughter peals out, quiet and deep, and he seems to relax a little.

"I'm not normally this bad," Jared assures him, handing over a paper towel from the truck. "I'm just a little preoccupied today."

"No harm done," Jensen replies easily, still grinning. "I'll let you get on home now, and we'll talk about the truck in a day or two, once I've settled in. That okay?"

"Sure thing. I'll be at Mass on Sunday," Jared offers. "We could hook up after that, if you want."

Jensen seems pleased with that; he nods, then frowns as Jared tosses him a casual salute and turns to leave.

"Wait—don't you want a ride home?" he asks. Jared shakes his head and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

"My place is only a quarter-mile from here. I'll be home before you get the old girl started." He grins a final time and turns to go, checking the time. He _really_ has to hurry now, or he'll be late for dinner. "See you around, padre!"

"Call me Jensen!" comes the answering shout, and Jared smiles all the way home.

* * *

Jared's only a few minutes late getting to Sandy's house in the end. He parks his Jeep on the street and gives his face a final once-over in the rear view mirror, checking for stray nicks or spots of blood. He shaved in a hurry, and it shows. Still, it's better to show up with a few scrapes and razor burn than to let Sandy think he couldn't be bothered. Jared makes a face at himself in the mirror and gets out of the car.

The walk up to her front door stretches before him, too long and far too short. Jared edges a finger inside his collar, trying without success to lessen the choking sensation around his neck. He doesn't know why he's nervous. He and Sandy have been heading for this since the day he first pulled her pigtails in the playground. He knows she's going to say yes, but that doesn't seem to matter. There's a hollow feeling in the bottom of his gut and he can't seem to catch his breath properly. Jared calls himself an idiot and marches straight up the path.

"Hey, you," Sandy says, opening the door to his knock. "About time you got here." She looks him up and down and whistles, and Jared's face heats up. "You got out the nice blue suit for li'l ol' me? I feel special."

She smiles up at him with bright eyes, looking prettier than just about anything Jared's ever seen. Her dark hair is swept up off her face in some kind of fancy twist, and her shoulders are bare beneath the thin straps of a dark red sundress that ends just above the knee. She goes up on tiptoes to kiss him, her scent light and fruity and sweet, and Jared has to fight down the urge to throw her over his shoulder and lock them both in her bedroom for a week.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Jared says when they part. "Had to drop in at the church. New priest got in today, and his truck broke down just as he got to town. I had to patch it up quick and get it back to him."

"The new priest?" Sandy turns to lead him into the house, giving Jared a view of her back that's just as good as the front. "What's he like?"

"Young. Kinda pretty, for a guy. Seems okay, though." Jared shrugs when Sandy gives him a questioning look. "Kim likes him, and Bob's cleaned out the empty place behind the church."

"Wow. There's a recommendation." Sandy stops in front of him and steps to one side with a little flourish. "Ta-da!"

Jared's stomach jumps a little when he takes in the scene. Sandy's gone all out tonight: the dining table is set with her mother's best china and flatware, vanilla scented votive candles burning in glass holders in the centre. There's a bottle of merlot open to one side, and he can smell steak grilling in the kitchen. Tom Waits is crooning quietly on the stereo, saving all his love for his girl.

"Jesus, Sandy," Jared breathes, and his heart clenches when her face lights up. "This looks amazing. You—" He takes hold of her waist, pulling her in close and kissing her again, "—are amazing."

"Why, thank you, kind sir," Sandy giggles, putting on a Southern-belle air. She pirouettes out of his arms and into the kitchen, calling out, "Sit down and pour the wine. Dinner's just about ready."

Jared settles gingerly into his seat, feeling the hard little box in his left coat pocket weighing him down. He dips his hand in and closes his fingers around it, crossing the fingers on his other hand and sending a quick prayer heavenward that he won't fuck this up.

Sandy re-enters the room carrying a bowl of green salad and a plate of baked potatoes, which she smacks Jared's hands away from with a warning look. Jared sits meekly with his hands in his lap when she returns from a second trip bearing salad dressing and sour cream, and applauds when she comes back a third time with their steaks. Sandy huffs and rolls her eyes, but her smile is almost incandescent as Jared clasps her hand across the table and murmurs grace. He can't stop himself from running his thumb down her fourth finger as he pulls away, imagining how his ring will look, and almost pops the question right there.

"This looks great," he says instead, and slices into his steak.

It's perfect, medium rare and juicy, just the way he likes it. Sandy's an awesome cook. She piles his plate up with potatoes and salad, and Jared thinks that even if he were a shallow man he'd still want to marry her for her cooking skills alone. It's pretty chauvinistic of him on the surface, but he really does admire her for it. He can't manage anything more complicated than opening a few cans or mac and cheese. The thought of coming home to Sandy every night and getting this kind of home cooking makes him feel kind of faint.

They eat in comfortable silence for a while, Jared devouring everything in sight while Sandy protects her plate and pokes fun at him for being a shameless glutton. Jared keeps her wine glass full, because a drunk Sandy is a happy Sandy, and by the end of dinner she's at least tipsy, her face aglow with more than pleasure at his presence.

"I'm drunk," she announces, shoving her plate away. "You've barely touched your glass all night, and I've had three, and now I can't stand up to do the dishes."

"I'm driving," Jared points out, though he can just as easily walk home from here. "Besides, you don't have to do the dishes yet. Or at all—I can't cook, but I know my way around a dishcloth."

"I'm not letting you in my kitchen," Sandy says in horror, eyes wide. "You'll burn something just by walking in there."

"Funny."

Jared pokes his tongue out at her and crosses his eyes, loving the way she dissolves into helpless giggles. He feels only a little nervous when he reaches into his pocket this time.

"Time for dessert," Sandy announces, pushing her chair back from the table. "Apple pie and ice cream, and don't you dare say you're too full."

"I—" Jared fumbles the ring box into his hand, holding up the other to stop Sandy getting up. "Just—stay there for a sec, hon, can you? I kinda—I want to ..."

Sandy watches, her eyes going wide, as Jared almost falls out of his chair and takes one long step to kneel beside her, opening the box with shaking fingers.

"Jared," she gasps, hand flying to her mouth, tears already forming in her eyes.

Jared takes a deep breath and holds Sandy's left hand, meeting her gaze.

"Sandy, will you marry me?"

She makes a small noise, free hand fluttering up to wipe away the tears spilling down her cheeks. Jared puts the ring box on her knees and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbing at her face.

"Well, hell," he says with a crooked grin. "Didn't think I'd upset you that much."

"Oh, shut up," she sobs, and hurtles out of the chair into his arms, box gripped tightly in her hand.

Jared gathers her into his lap and hangs on, pressing kisses into her hair and the soft skin of her neck. Sandy's clinging to him like he's life itself, and he knows why: he's pretty much all she has in the way of family since her folks passed on. He rubs a hand over her back in long soothing strokes and waits while she gets herself together.

"I take it back," he jokes when she finally pulls away. "Forget I mentioned it."

"Like hell I will. Took you long enough in the first place." Sandy takes the ring out of the box and thrusts it at him, holding out her left hand imperiously. "Put that where it belongs, mister."

Jared grins and slides the ring on her finger, diamond-gold sitting prettily against her skin. It's not huge—he does okay with the garage, but he's no Rockefeller—but Sandy seems to like it just fine. He lifts her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss on her knuckle, just above the band.

"I swear I'll make you happy," he whispers, and watches her tear up again.

The dishes end up sitting in the sink, untouched, while they cuddle on the couch. Jared's careful to keep himself in check, because they agreed long ago they were going to wait, but it's hard to distract himself from the soft weight of Sandy in his arms, her loosened hair sliding over his chest and neck while they kiss. It's sooner than he'd like when he pushes himself away and says good night, but if he doesn't leave now he won't leave at all.

"You want me to go see Father Bob?" Sandy asks at the door while Jared's shrugging back into his coat.

"Nah, I'll do it. I have to go see the new guy about his truck again after Mass on Sunday anyhow." Jared fishes his keys out of his pocket and leans in to kiss her one last time. "I'll see you."

"I'll bring lunch by the garage tomorrow," she promises, and smacks his ass as he walks out the door, laughing when he yelps. "Get used to it, Padalecki. That ass is mine now."

"Is it too soon for cold feet?" Jared wonders, and blows her a kiss when she mock-growls at him. "G'night, honey."

"'Night," she says, her face softening. "Sleep well."

Jared doesn't pay attention to the road on the short drive home. He's too busy cataloguing the details of Sandy's face and form tonight, the way her eyes dance when she smiles, the happiness shining out of her with every breath. He's done a good thing tonight, something that's been a long time coming. All that's left is to dot the i's and cross the t's, and sign on the dotted line.

He'll talk to Bob after Mass, before he goes to see Jensen about his truck. He could talk to Jensen about both things, maybe, as a welcome to the parish, but Bob's been his and Sandy's priest their whole lives. He deserves to know first, after Jared's family. His mother's going to flip—she's been at him to propose for the past two years, but Jared was waiting for the time to be just right. He's still not sure that it was right now, but it doesn't look like a better time will ever come along, so—why the hell not?

Jared pulls into his driveway and decides he'll swing by his folks' place for breakfast, break the news then. It'll be all over town by midday, but that's to be expected, and it's not like he wants to keep it secret anyway. Everyone's going to be happy for them. Everyone's going to want a hand in planning the wedding, too, but Jared figures he can leave that part to Sandy and his mom.

Not a bad night's work, all in all. He gets changed and hangs up his suit, looking at himself in the mirror, trying to see if he looks as different as he feels. He can't tell.

* * *

Jensen's surprised at how quickly he settles in. Only two days have passed and it already feels like he's been here ... well, not forever, but long enough to get comfortable. He's never moved around a lot; it was just the orphanage and school in Dallas until he was eighteen, and then he went straight into the seminary. The shift to San Antonio and then here feels like one move, one part setting up the next. He's always wanted to live in a small town. He could get used to living in this one.

He attends his first midmorning Mass on Sunday as part of the congregation, toning down his choir dress on Bob's advice. Bob is deft and matter-of-fact in his devotions, and the Mass proceeds swiftly. Jensen doesn't take Communion, watching from the sidelines as half the town lines up. He sees Jared in the line and is reminded of their appointment to talk about the truck; Jared looks over and catches his eye, and tilts his head in silent query with a smile. Jensen smiles back and nods, glad Jared hasn't forgotten.

After Mass, Bob calls him into the sacristy.

"Ever done any marriage counselling?" he asks, shrugging out of his vestments. Jensen attends him automatically, still used to serving the archbishop in San Antonio.

"Pre-marriage or after?" He's qualified for both.

"Pre." Bob kisses his stole and folds it away carefully. "Young Jared finally popped the question to his girl, so they're gonna need to come in and talk to one of us."

"He's engaged?" Jensen raises a brow. "Seems a little young for it."

"Not those two. They've been together since high school. Sandy's a little older, keeps him settled. Whole town's been waitin' on this for years."

Jensen thinks that sounds more than a little uncomfortable, having an entire town watching your love life develop. Still, if Sandy and Jared both grew up here he imagines they're used to it by now.

"Okay, well." He shrugs. "If that's the case, they might not want to talk to a stranger."

"I think that's exactly what they should do," Bob corrects him. "You can give a fresh perspective on the situation. I'm a little biased, after watching them grow up."

"I doubt that," Jensen says. "But I'm seeing Jared later today. I'll ask him then."

Bob nods in agreement, and Jensen heads off to do his stint in confession. It's pretty quiet; a slow week for sinning, or else nobody wants to air their dirty laundry to the new priest just yet. Jensen wishes he'd thought to bring a newspaper into the booth with him, then says five Hail Marys under his breath in penance.

Jared is waiting outside the cottage when Jensen gets back, long legs reaching the ground easily over the edge of the porch. He grins as Jensen approaches, drawing a smile out of him in response.

"Heard you got yourself engaged," Jensen says in greeting. "Congratulations."

"Yeah." Jared's smile turns wry. "I wonder who won the betting pool."

"Gambling is a sin," Jensen intones. "So if anyone tells me in confession, I'll let you know. So long as I get a cut, that is."

Jared laughs and gets to his feet, dusting off his jeans. Jensen walks past him up the stairs and opens the front door, gesturing for Jared to enter first.

"Want a drink?" he asks, loosening his collar and setting it down on the kitchen counter. "Coke and water's about all I got until I go to the store."

"Coke's great, thanks." Jared looks around the place. "Don't take long to settle in, do you?"

Jensen unpacked the same day Jared brought his gear over. It hadn't taken long; his books haven't filled even a quarter of the space in the bookshelf, and his framed photos make the mantelpiece look even emptier. Jensen sees Jared eyeing the photo of himself and Chris, arms around each other's shoulders, taken just before Chris left the seminary. Chris is looking straight on, laughing at something; Jensen is watching Chris with an open look of adoration.

"That's Chris," he says, bringing a can of soda over for each of them. "My brother, kind of. We grew up together."

"Looks like a nice guy." Jared takes the can and pops it, draining half of it right then. "Sorry. I got no manners to speak of. My mama's always whacking me for it." He grins again. "Guess Sandy will be too from now on."

Jensen pops the top on his own can and sips, sitting in the single armchair at right angles to the couch. Jared drops onto the couch nearby, taking up almost half the available space.

"Bob mentioned, when he told me your news," Jensen begins hesitantly, "that you might prefer not to meet with him for your pre-marriage counselling. I've got the necessary training if you, uh, want another option."

"Oh hey, that would be great," Jared says, sounding relieved. "I'll have to talk to Sandy and all, but seriously—talking to someone who _hasn't_ known us our whole lives? I'm pretty sure she'll go for it. I mean, Father Bob's awesome, but he christened both of us. He might be a little biased."

"That's what he said," Jensen says with a grin, just to hear Jared laugh again. "Okay, good. Talk to your fiancée, see what she says. I'll figure out logistics with Bob and get back to you. Shouldn't take too long."

They move on to the subject of Jensen's truck, and Jensen lets himself relax. Jared does most of the talking, expansive hand gestures illustrating his points as he lays out exactly what Jensen has to pay up front to get his baby working again. He listens intently, finding himself smiling whenever Jared's enthusiasm gets the better of him, asking questions to extend the conversation. It's nearly half an hour later when Jared looks at his watch and nearly leaps to his feet.

"Oh, hell—I mean, _heck_ , I'm late for lunch," he says, clearly dismayed. "And I just blasphemed. Sorry, man."

"Don't worry about it. I'm always slipping up." Jensen stands up and walks him to the door. "Thanks for coming over, Jared. I'll drop the truck off in the morning and you can get started, okay?"

"Okay, sure." Jared stops outside the door, gnawing on his thumbnail for a moment. "You ... wanna join us for lunch, maybe?" he asks. "It's just my folks and Sandy—my parents, and my younger sister at home. My brother makes it down once a month or so, he lives in the city, but not today. Mama always cooks too much, and there's plenty of room."

Jensen's tempted to say yes. Jared's the most engaging person he's ever met, and the chance to get to know him better is right there in front of him, at Jared's own invitation. But he feels weird, joining the family so soon after Jared and Sandy's engagement. It's not right, somehow.

"Thanks for the invite, but not today," he says at last. "You guys should celebrate alone first. Another time."

Jared's face falls, but he brightens again almost immediately.

"I'll hold you to that," he promises. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Absolutely."

Jensen sees him off with a wave, then clears away their empty soda cans and puts his collar back on. The image of a home-cooked Sunday dinner rises before him for a moment, Jared's laughing face opposite him at the table, but he dispels it with a shake of his head and heads for the office to find a copy of the pre-marriage questionnaire.

* * *

He drops the truck off at the garage the next day and gives Jared the questionnaire, and a second one for Sandy. Jared flicks through the hundred-some questions with a bemused look, raising a brow at some of them but offering no comment. Jensen waits until he's done, hands in his pockets to conceal his twitching. He still feels awkward about this, but he appears to be the only one.

"You're supposed to do this six months before the wedding," he says when Jared looks up again. "But I'm guessing you're not going to want to wait that long."

"Are you kidding?" Jared grins. "Mama's already booking florists and caterers and I don't know what else. I'm bein' pinned into a tux sometime this week and Sandy's said she's had her dress on layaway for months. I'll be lucky if I'm still single at the end of the _week_ , let alone the year."

He doesn't sound too worried about it; in fact, he looks ecstatic. Jensen smiles at his obvious happiness, wondering why it doesn't warm him like it should. He usually likes seeing couples prepare for their life together. It gives him hope to watch people in love, because there must be a reason behind so much feeling. It can't just be random chemical responses and electrical impulses: there's some element of the soul at work, whether it's a couple renewing their vows after thirty-five years or a pair of newlyweds just starting out. And if people have souls, then there must be a place for them when life is done. Jensen's always believed this; it's why he dedicated himself to the Church in the first place. He trusts God to care for the souls of the departed; he'll do his best to look after them here.

He puts his lack of enthusiasm down to his pre-caffeinated state. Jared doesn't seem to have noticed, at least, for which he's grateful.

"When did you want to do this?" Jared asks. "Sandy's at college in San Antonio most of the week, and she works there full-time when school's out. She comes home on weekends, mostly, but she can maybe make it down through the week."

"Up to you." Jensen shrugs. "I can work around your schedules. One of the perks of working from home."

"A priest at my beck and call," Jared says with a wink. "I like it."

Jensen chokes at that, laughter colliding with breathlessness. Jared claps him on the back and promises to call him later to confirm a time for the counselling, and Jensen walks the half-mile back to town in something of a daze.

He's used to people flirting with him. He's not supposed to _enjoy_ it. On the other hand, Jared's an attractive man—okay, he's hot, Jensen can be honest—and he's only human. But it's all right. Jared's engaged to be married. Nothing's ever going to come of it.

* * *

Jared calls Jensen at home that night. Jensen doesn't bother to ask how he got the number. He gives him his cell number as well, just in case. In case of what, he doesn't articulate, and Jared doesn't ask.

"Wednesday night, six o'clock," Jensen repeats. "I got it. I'm writing it in my diary right now."

"I'm in your diary? Now I feel special."

Jared's voice is deeper on the phone. There's a teasing quality to his voice that's clearer when Jensen can't see him. It trips pleasantly down his spine, warming him from the inside out, not that he needs it in this weather. He shakes it off and breathes steadily for a moment before answering.

"You are, but don't get excited. You're right after the Gamble baby's christening. If I'm a little late, that's why."

"Duly noted." There's a pause, and a muffled groan that sounds like Jared's in pain. "Oh, for cryin' out—hey, are you watching this?"

Jensen looks up at the TV, which he'd muted when the phone rang. He's missed something, that's clear, but he kind of lost focus once Jared started talking.

"Rangers/Angels? Yeah, but I missed whatever's got you riled."

"Fuckin' _Loe_ is what's got me riled. He keeps throwin' wet dishrags instead of curve balls, we're gonna lose this thing. And I do not wanna put up with Chad gloating for the next week and a half."

"Who's Chad?" Jensen asks, heading into the kitchen for a soda. He makes a note on the magnetic whiteboard on the fridge to do grocery shopping tomorrow.

"Chad Murray. He's a buddy of mine. Gonna be best man, unless I kill him before the wedding." Jared grinds his teeth as Loe fouls again. "Owns the greengrocer's."

"He's not a Rangers fan, I take it," Jensen says dryly.

"Nope. He's from New York, so he fuckin' worships the Yankees, but he loves rubbin' my nose in it when we lose."

"We won't lose." He settles back down on the couch with a Coke and half a bag of Doritos. "Loe's gonna get it together."

"You got God's word on that?" Jared shoots back, and Jensen laughs and turns the sound back up.

* * *

The Gamble christening does run late. At six o'clock on Wednesday he's standing before the baptismal font with a whimpering child flinching away from his hand; at six-fifteen Jensen is practically throwing the guests out of the church, checking his watch every thirty seconds. He flat-out runs from the church to the office, where Jared and Sandy have been waiting.

"Wow," Jared says when he skids to a stop just inside the conference room. "Nice. You didn't have to get all dressed up for us, man."

Jensen throws him a look and quickly strips out of his vestments, holding out a hand to Sandy when he's done.

"Jensen Ackles," he introduces himself. "Nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise," she replies with a sunny smile. "Jared's talked about you nonstop since you got here. I was half afraid he was gonna ask for his ring back, he's so sweet on you."

"Shut up," Jared mumbles. Sandy laughs and nudges him in the ribs, winking at Jensen on the sly.

He smiles back, noting how she and Jared behave toward each other. Sandy's a pretty little thing, dark hair and eyes and a smile to match Jared's in brightness. She barely reaches his shoulder when they're standing, at a guess. They're obviously comfortable together, sitting close at one end of the long couch, Sandy's hand resting casually on Jared's knee.

"Right, let's get started," he says. "I'm assuming you've each completed the questionnaire separately?" He waits for their nods of agreement, then continues. "Okay, good. Normally what would happen is we'd take those answers and score them electronically, and that would give us a percentile of compatibility in each category and help identify any areas where you might benefit from some discussion. But since we're not up to speed with that system here just yet, I'll be scoring your answers by hand. That's going to take a little time, so this is just a preliminary session to outline what we'll be talking about in detail later."

"All of this is confidential, right?" Jared asks.

"Completely. It can be done under seal of the confessional, if you want." Jensen raises a brow and looks at each of them in turn. "And if either of you wants to discuss something privately, feel free to contact me anytime. The goal here is to prepare you for marriage with a clear mind and free of doubts about yourselves and each other. Okay?"

Sandy nods, an intent frown on her pretty face; Jared looks a little less certain, but he nods when Jensen looks to him. Jensen starts to ask if he's okay, then clears his throat instead.

"Okay. I thought we'd start with a brief description of each of the categories of the questionnaire ..."

The hour passes quickly. The next time Jensen checks his watch it's seven-thirty and his stomach is growling in unabashed hunger. He smiles apologetically as its rumbling interrupts Sandy's latest question.

"Sorry. I never got round to having lunch."

"No, _I'm_ sorry," she says, looking at her watch. "We've been here far too long. Jared must be ready to start eating his own leg by now."

"Kinda," Jared agrees with a grin. "You want to join us for dinner, Jensen? We're eating out tonight."

Jensen looks at Sandy. She doesn't seem to mind the suggestion, but something tells him it's not a good idea.

"Not tonight," he says, and then adds, "Rain check?"

"Sure," Jared agrees. "That'd be great, right, hon?"

"Yeah," Sandy says with a smile. "But we should get out of here, let you get home."

"I'll see you again this weekend," Jensen says. "Saturday afternoon okay? Say around two?"

"Fine." Sandy gathers up her purse and gives him another smile. "It was lovely meeting you, Jensen. Thanks for doing this."

"All part of the service," Jensen replies, and flicks at his collar. "Literally."

He catches Jared's grin, but doesn't let himself linger over it, turning to show them to the door. They leave in a flurry of goodbyes and see-you-laters, and it's a relief when Jensen finally gets behind his own front door and locks it firmly behind him.

Their questionnaires are clutched in his hand, pages bent with the force of his grip. Jensen smoothes out the paper and runs a finger over Jared's name, written in a bold, messy script. He flips to the halfway mark, then a little further, pretending to scan the answers. When he gets to number 95, he stops.

_I am concerned that homosexual feelings or behaviors could have a negative effect on our marital relationship._

The questionnaire is answered like a quiz, with a choice of "agree/disagree/undecided". Jensen looks at the question for a long time before he lets his gaze wander down to the answer.

 _Undecided_.

* * *

He lets the questionnaires sit untouched until the next night. He also goes out to the bar hidden away behind the gas station and picks up a twelve-pack of Dos Equis. It's the first beer he's bought in almost a year. He tells himself the two things aren't connected, but it takes two bottles of Especial before he can convince himself it's true.

It takes about an hour to go through Sandy's questionnaire. He tries to do the job properly: making notes as he goes, keeping a tally of her answers and circling issues that might come up for further discussion. There aren't many; Sandy's results show her utter faith that she and Jared are meant to be, and her confidence in her ability to make the marriage work. Jensen admires her forthrightness.

He picks up Jared's questionnaire and reads through it slowly. Every question seems significant, giving him an insight into Jared's character he wouldn't otherwise have. He learns that Jared and Sandy are highly compatible in almost every way, from thoughts on finances and children to gender roles and mutual respect. Their familiarity with each other shows in the easy way their answers match and blend.

And yet. He keeps returning to those few of Jared's answers that don't mesh with the rest.

 _I sometimes feel that this may not be the right person for me to marry._ Agree.

 _My future spouse and I can talk about our sexual fears, hopes and preferences._ Disagree.

Natural fears, maybe, regardless of how long they've been together. But Jensen is unable to let it go.

He scores the questionnaires, compiling the answers into a neat list of categorised results in the eightieth percentile. There's a short list of issues that need to be explored further; he marks these with a highlighter, slides the whole package into a manila folder and takes it next door to Bob.

"What's this?" Bob asks when Jensen drops it on his desk.

"Jared and Sandy's questionnaire results," he says. "I've scored them and narrowed down the issues that need further discussion."

"Okay," Bob says slowly, looking at Jensen over his glasses. "And you're telling me this because ...?"

"I can't do it."

Jensen has no idea what he says after that; he gets the feeling afterward that he all but begged Bob to finish the job, but he doesn't—can't—articulate why he can't do it himself. It doesn't make a good impression, which he regrets, but Bob finally agrees to contact Jared and Sandy and take over the sessions.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking at the floor. "I know this is weird, and I realise I've put you in an awkward position ..."

"Don't worry about it," Bob says when he trails off. "Better to switch halfway through than for you to go on if you're not comfortable. I'll handle it."

"Thank you," Jensen says gratefully, and goes home with his dignity in shreds.

The rest of the twelve-pack sits invitingly in the fridge. Jensen gives into temptation, just this once.

* * *

Jared doesn't comment on the change, for which Jensen is grateful. He drops by the garage on Thursday, finding Jared flat on his back beneath the Ford.

"Hey," he says, nudging Jared's booted foot. "You alive under there?"

Jared rolls out, iPod buds in his ears, squinting into the afternoon sun. His face lights up when he sees Jensen.

"Hey!" He takes the headphones out and sits upright, grabbing the hand Jensen extends to get to his feet. "I was gonna call you, see if you were free to come over."

"Great minds think alike." Jensen nods at the Ford. "How's it going?"

"So-so. She'll do you for running about town and maybe over into Devine, but she won't get you much farther than that. I don't have all the parts I need for her here, and it'll take a week or so to get 'em in from San Antonio." Jared takes a red rag from the back pocket of his coveralls and wipes his face with it. "You can take her home tonight if you want."

"Okay. What do I owe you?"

Jared waves a hand. "Don't worry about it for now. I'm keepin' a timesheet, we can settle up after the job's done. You're down a couple hundred dollars so far. I'll let you know if it starts creeping up around five hundred. Sound okay?"

"Yeah, uh, fine."

Jensen nods and stands there awkwardly, hands in his pockets. He's not sure what to say now that they've got that out of the way. He rarely feels this way around people, even total strangers, but he's seen too much of Jared to feel truly comfortable anymore. Or maybe Jared's just the exception to the rule. Either way, Jensen is fighting to maintain eye contact without flushing, and he has to consciously remind himself to breathe.

"So, uh." Jared tilts his head a little. "You're a Rangers fan, huh."

"Yeah, kinda," Jensen admits. "I like baseball. Basketball, too. I used to play in the seminary."

"No football? You're big enough. Built enough, too." Jared looks him over, and Jensen suppresses a shiver.

"Too violent. I never really got into it."

"Guess not," Jared agrees. "I shoot a few hoops now and then myself. You should come over sometime, have a beer."

"I can't drink," Jensen says automatically, before adding, "I mean, I _can_ drink, but I usually don't. I like to keep a clear head."

"So, you come over, we hang out in my driveway and you watch me drink." Jared shrugs and grins, free and easy. "You can overdose on Dr Pepper and end up on a massive sugar high. It'll be fun."

"I, uh."

Jensen doesn't know what to say. His head is telling him to politely refuse, maintain some distance; his libido is telling him something else entirely, and before he knows it he's saying, "Okay, yeah, sure," and listening as Jared gives him directions.

"Saturday, around four?" Jared says, and Jensen agrees dazedly as he slides behind the wheel. "I hope you're not just teasing me here, man. I haven't gone one-on-one with anyone good in years. Best I can usually do is Chad, and he's got about as much physical coordination as a rag doll."

Jensen is surprised into laughter, and Jared smiles back at him, his whole face getting in on the act.

"I'll do my best," he promises. "See you Saturday."

He's humming as he drives away, Jared's figure getting smaller in the rearview mirror. Saturday feels like eons away.

* * *

Jared wasn't kidding about basketball. He really likes it, and it sucks that he doesn't have anyone decent to play off when he wants a workout. It's kind of pathetic to shoot hoops by himself all the time, plus it gets boring real quick, so he's excited about Jensen coming over. He's also nervous because it's _Jensen_ coming over, and Jared is surprised to find that he really likes the guy. Not that Jensen's cold or a snob or whatever; he's anything but, which is kind of the point. Jared's used to being ... well, not looked down on or anything, but maybe _dismissed_ a little by other guys his age who've gone to college. Jared went to technical college to get his qualifications, and he's a damn good mechanic, but he knows it's a blue collar job and always will be. Guys like Jensen with a college degree usually have this little unconscious barrier between themselves and guys like him, like having a few letters after your name makes you a better class of person.

That's not there with Jensen: he's completely approachable, warm, friendly right from the get-go after his initial shyness, and Jared's responding to that without thought. He likes how Jensen is with people. Sandy likes him too, and Kim actually smiles at the mention of his name. Jared hasn't seen him in church yet, but he's willing to bet he'll be amazing. Jensen's got a lot of personal magnetism—hell, even Jared's not unaffected.

So yeah, he likes the guy. Can't help it when Jensen smiles like he's surprised Jared's giving him the time of day. Jared doesn't know him all that well just yet, but he's gonna do his best to change that. The more he sees him, the more he wants to know.


	2. Chapter 2

The weekend dawns hot and clear, the sun baking everything it touches and making the blacktop sizzle. Jensen starts the day off with a cold shower, praying the mercury doesn't get over a hundred. It being Texas in July, of course God thinks he's joking, and Jensen's not really surprised when the air soon gets hot and crisp enough to dry him off when he steps out of the shower.

He takes refuge in the diner during the worst part of the day, along with half the town. The air conditioning only makes things worse; the minute he steps out into the heat, he wants to turn around and go back inside. But it's nearly four, and he promised Jared, so he slides into the Ford and eases her back along the road to the church, finding himself in Jared's drive as if on autopilot.

Jared's got the hoop and full backboard installed over his garage door, regulation height, plenty of clearance on either side for rebounds. Jensen hasn't seen a setup like that since he finished school.

"Sure you don't want that beer?" is how Jared greets him, muscle shirt and loose shorts showcasing long, golden-tan limbs. Jensen slathers himself in sunblock and shakes his head.

"I'll pass for now," he says, "but I might take you up on it later."

"Good man."

Jared claps him on the shoulder, right on a particularly tender spot. Jensen hides his wince and stretches out his hamstrings and calves, bending down to grab his ankles a few times.

"When you're ready, Mr Rodman," Jared quips, and tosses the ball at him. "First to twenty, best of three, and the guest shoots first."

Jensen catches the ball, spins it easily on his finger and rolls it down his arm, grinning when Jared's eyebrow goes up a notch.

"Ready when you are, sport."

* * *

Jensen takes no prisoners on the ball court, Jared discovers. He's fast, flexible and absolutely ruthless, stealing the ball at every opportunity, checking him with solid blocks and scoring baskets Jared wouldn't believe if he wasn't there to see it. It's the tightest game he's played since high school, and by the time it's over they're both gasping for breath and dripping sweat, hands slipping off the ball more often than they can hold it. Jared calls a halt at around five-thirty and grabs the hose, shamelessly ignoring water restrictions to cool them both down. Jensen stands with his arms outstretched and groans when the cool jet of water hits him; looking at him, Jared forgets where he is for a moment and just stares.

"Enough!" Jensen splutters, and Jared shakes himself and angles the hose away with a muttered apology. Jensen slumps onto the wet concrete with a sigh.

"I'll take that beer now."

"Ha. I knew it." Jared ducks into the kitchen through the connecting door in the garage, coming back with two bottles of Bud. "You're not infallible after all."

"Bite me," Jensen says, and angles his head to drink without sitting up. Jared gets caught on the long line of his neck, flushing when he realises what he's doing. He looks away and drinks his own beer, hoping it'll cool him down.

"Jared ..."

Jensen's sitting up now, looking worried. He picks at the label on his bottle with his thumbnail for a second before he goes on.

"I want to ... explain myself, about the counselling," he says. "If that's okay."

"Sure. I mean, you don't have to." Jared shrugs. "I just assumed you changed your mind or couldn't do it, or whatever. No big deal, man. It's just a formality anyway."

Jensen shoots him a doubtful glance at that, but doesn't disagree.

"I have a kind of conflict," he says slowly, like he's choosing his words. "It's just a personal thing, but it would've affected my objectivity. I thought it'd be better if I just bowed out and let you work through it with Bob."

"Works for me. Sandy's got no complaints either." Jared clears his throat, feeling a little awkward. "I can still talk to you though, right? If I need to? Just, I don't know, as a friend?"

Jensen drops his eyes for a second and swallows. Jared watches the nervous tremble of his lips.

"Yeah." He sounds half-afraid, but his glance at Jared is warm all the way through. "You can always talk to me."

* * *

The ice seems to break after that. Jared starts dropping by the church at random times just to say hey, and Jensen comes over a few nights a week to abuse Jared's PlayStation and work on the truck. They even go running together a couple of times, but that doesn't last long because Jensen's not an early riser and Jared discovers he's not able to keep his mind where it belongs when he's looking at Jensen first thing in the morning.

He starts encouraging Sandy to come home more often. He misses her now that she's in the city all the time. It's necessary, he knows: she doesn't want him to be the only breadwinner, so she's working in a boutique to help pay for the wedding, but he only ever sees her on weekends.

"I can come back midweek, maybe, on Wednesdays," she says on the phone one night. "I work the late shift on Thursdays. Not every week, but it's better than nothing, right?"

"Fantastic," Jared agrees, and for a while it is.

The wedding plans come together scary fast—with his mama and Sandy at the wheel there's no other way for it to happen. Jared goes and gets fitted for his tux, and agrees with all of Sandy's choices for music and invitations and listens to her frustration at being unable to find a caterer she likes. It all feels kind of surreal, like it's happening to someone else. He talks to Jensen about it once, when they're kicking back in Jared's living room watching the Mets lose to the Padres.

"But you're happy, right?" Jensen says.

Jared shrugs. "Sure. I mean, me and Sandy have been together since day one, feels like. I wouldn't know what to do without her."

"Maybe you're just dealing with the change in a different way." Jensen grins. "I once met a guy who proposed to his girlfriend and then started sleepwalking from the stress. She used to have to handcuff him to the bed every night; else he'd wind up three blocks away curled up in someone's doorway when the sun came up."

"She _handcuffed_ him?" Jared chuckled. "You're kidding."

"No word of a lie," Jensen says solemnly. "They ended up postponing the wedding until he got his cold feet under control. Been married four years now. They still send me Christmas cards."

"Postponing. Wow." Jared turns the idea around in his head for a minute. "Does that happen often?"

"More often than you'd think. That's what those questionnaires and counselling sessions are for, to make sure you're ready to get married in the first place." Jensen's watching him with a steady gaze now, not prying, just ... _there_. Approachable. "It's not too late for second thoughts, Jared."

"I'm not," Jared protests automatically. But he's not sure Jensen buys it. He's less and less sure he _wants_ him to.

* * *

There are things Jared notices about Jensen that he's fairly sure he's not supposed to.

Things like: Jensen never shortchanges anything when it comes to his vocation. If he's on the job, he's _completely_ on the job, right down to the collar and word-perfect Latin. But when he's not working, it's like he's a different person. The Jensen he knows is looser, freer when he moves and speaks, laughs more and touches more. Jensen-the-priest is still like that, still warm and genuine and good, but he's restrained, holding back from everything just a little bit. Jared knows he's not supposed to like that as much as he does, but he can't help it.

Jensen's touchy about his personal space, too. He flinches away if Jared comes too close, or touches his back or shoulder, and Jared gets to wondering why. He's not shy about bodychecking when they're playing basketball, and he doesn't seem to notice when their legs collide or get tangled up when they're sitting on the couch. He's always fully clothed whenever Jared sees him though, which is pretty weird in this sort of heat. Maybe he's got body issues, or something, but if that's the case Jared can't see why. Jensen's built like a running back, all lean muscle and agility. But it's not his business, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

He looks, though. More often than he should.

Jared learns about Chris, Jensen's putative brother, and what it was like growing up in a Catholic orphanage. Jensen downplays the worst parts, he's certain; focusing on the hijinks Chris got them into when they were kids—and when they weren't kids anymore.

"He did _what_?" Jared spills beer down his shirt, staring at Jensen in surprise.

"Took me out the night before I was ordained." Jensen grins around his swallow of beer. "Got me laid good and proper. Said no-one ought to take vows unless they knew what they were giving up."

"Holy shit." Jared dabs absently at his shirt, still staring. "I take it you didn't have second thoughts, then."

"Well." Jensen grins again and raises an eyebrow. "Maybe for a minute or two, you know?"

"Uh." Jared coughs and fiddles with the label on his bottle. "Not ... as such, no."

"... you don't know?"

He looks up and sees Jensen watching him with something like respect. It embarrasses him and makes him feel good at the same time.

"Well," he echoes Jensen, shrugging one shoulder. "There's ... it's only ever been Sandy, and she—we agreed to wait, so."

"Dude." Jensen toasts him with his beer, not a hint of mockery about it. "That's pretty cool, man, seriously. Both of you."

"Thanks, I think." He settles back against the couch. Curiosity niggles at him, and he hesitates, but Jensen seems pretty open tonight. "So, uh. Guy or girl?"

"What?"

"When you ... you know." Jared fights back the blush heating up his face. "Was it a guy or a girl?"

"Oh. _Oh_. Uh, girl," Jensen stammers. "Chris didn't even—I mean, I never—we never talked about that."

"So you two never ...?" Jared prompts, knowing he's pushing his luck. Jensen doesn't call him on it, though; he just ducks his head with a quick shake, looking at his hands.

"No. No," he says quietly. "It was never like that for him."

"For him," Jared repeats. "But it was for you?"

It's Jensen's turn to shrug, staying quiet for so long Jared thinks that's all he's going to get for an answer. Then Jensen sighs and looks up, as if coming to a decision, and looks Jared in the eye.

"It was ... a long time ago," he says haltingly, in the tone of an admission. "I ... he was like my big brother, and I just about worshipped him while we were growing up. It was inevitable, I guess, but I grew out of it."

"You sure?" Jared looks him up and down, trying out a teasing grin. "You look a little flustered to me. You gonna uphold the ultimate Catholic priest stereotype, Jensen? It's okay, you know I wouldn't tell anyone."

"Shut up, don't even say it as a joke," Jensen groans. "I could wind up in court for even _thinking_ about it."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. Forget I mentioned it," Jared says, and he means it.

They go back to watching the game, and it's like the conversation never happened. Things are normal, banter and yelling at the TV and throwing corn chips at each other at random intervals, and by the time it's over the beer is gone and Jensen's already talking about the penance he's going to have to do tomorrow.

"Dude, come on," Jared argues as he walks Jensen to the door. "You're the most pious person I've ever met in my whole life. If you can't kick back and have a few beers once in a while, what's the point of all that holiness? Just chill, would you, and accept that you're allowed to have a good time. God's not gonna strike you down in the morning."

"No, but the hangover will," Jensen says darkly.

"Hydrate," Jared orders, shoving him out the door. "At least two pints of water before bed, you hear me?"

"I'll make it holy water just in case," Jensen shoots back. "'Night, Jared. And ... thanks."

He stares up at Jared with big eyes from the foot of the stairs, clutching his clerical collar in one hand. His hair is mussed from lying on the couch; face a little slack with inebriation. Jared takes a moment to store that image in his mind before he answers.

"Thanks for what?"

"Just ... thanks." Jensen nods as if that's supposed to explain everything, and gives him a little wave. "See you."

"Yeah." Jared watches him get to the end of the drive before he figures it out. "Hey, Jensen?"

"Yeah?"

"You're welcome. And, uh, thank you too. For—you know."

Jensen's smile is blinding in the dark.

"Yeah, I know. Good night, Jared."

"Good night."

Jared has trouble sleeping that night for the first time in forever. The weird thing is, he doesn't really mind.

* * *

The folks in town start teasing them, asking Jared if he's sure he knows which person he's supposed to be marrying. Sandy smiles to cover her confusion when it happens around her, but Jared can't really find the right words to explain. He doesn't talk to her about Jensen much. It just doesn't feel right. She comes down most Wednesdays now, and they spend their time talking about the wedding and what to do with Sandy's place once they're married. Sandy wants to sell it, but Jared convinces her to keep it and lease it out instead.

Sandy seems surprised the first time Jared pulls away from her on the couch after dinner; he thinks he sees disappointment in her eyes, but it doesn't change his mind. The next time it happens she laughs and gives him a knowing look, and doesn't argue when he starts leaving her place earlier and earlier. Jared takes the easy out rather than digging into his own motivation—or lack thereof.

Chad gets his feathers ruffled because Jared's not hanging out with him anymore. It's a fair call, so Jared invites him over for an _Evil Dead_ marathon. It's an okay night, but it clarifies for Jared just how much better he and Jensen get along. Chad's a nice guy and all, and Jared likes him; he's just conscious now of the difference between guys hanging out and _friends_ hanging out. He and Chad kind of drifted together in the beginning, and it's sad to realise that if this were a bigger town they would've drifted apart again long ago. But he has Chad and Jensen over together a few times, and it works.

"I'm starting to doubt that you actually go to church at all, you know," Jensen says on one occasion. "You too lazy to get your ass out of bed on Sundays before noon?"

They're washing Jensen's truck, sudsy buckets of water at their feet rather than using the hose. The day is muggy and close, air clinging wet and heavy to everything without any actual promise of rain. Jensen's moving with particular care as he bends to scrub around the fender, and Jared bites his tongue against asking. He spies a rusty-looking stain at the bottom of Jensen's t-shirt, and thinks, _old blood_ without knowing why.

"I prefer to celebrate Mass at a civilised time of day," he says with a superior air. "God wouldn't want me in His house when I'm not fully awake to appreciate it, right?"

"Nice try." Jensen flicks his sponge across the hood of the car, spraying him liberally with soapy water. "I dare you to come to early Mass this Sunday."

"You really don't want that. I snore." Jared grins. "Sandy refuses to go to the drive in with me anymore."

"Double dare you."

"You'll regret it."

"Take the dare or be a loser forever, bitch."

"Fine. Sunday, early Mass, and on your own head be it." Jared flicks his own sponge, and then the fight is on.

Later, after Jensen's sent him home sopping wet and laughing, Jared sits and thinks. About Sandy, and all their plans. About Jensen, and all the things he hasn't said. When he goes to sleep that night, his head is aching with conflicting urges and his dreams are very strange.

* * *

Jensen doesn't shower after Jared leaves. He makes a chicken salad for dinner and eats it, waiting for the sun to go down and the bite to leave the heat of the day. Then he goes into his bedroom and draws the curtains before opening the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

It's not a fetish, or a kink, like some people would undoubtedly say. He doesn't get any physical pleasure out of it. But there's a certain sense of freedom, of satisfaction in the swish of leather and the sting when it hits. It calms his mind, helps him focus on the important things. He can forget the uncertainty and roiling confusion inside him and concentrate on what is right.

Matthew 26:41— _Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak._

Jensen sets his mind in the narrow lines of denial and flays himself raw.

* * *

Jared's never actually seen Jensen at the pulpit before. He always _intends_ to make it to early Mass on Sundays, but longstanding habit has him rolling over when his alarm goes off at six o'clock, only to haul ass when he wakes up again at nine. Today he actually got up on time, though, thanks to Jensen's nagging and Sandy making him promise he'd be at her place for breakfast afterward. He knows better than to punk out on her. She knows where he stashes all his comic books.

So yeah, he's never watched Jensen formally do his thing. It's kind of weird, in a skin-shivery way: this isn't the Jensen he knows outside church, the guy who matches him basket for basket when they're shooting hoops, who sucks at Guitar Hero and doesn't mind when Jared gloats about winning; the guy who drinks all of Jared's beer and then buys him twice as much to make up for it. This Jensen is a stranger, like seeing an actor outside of a role they've played for a long time. Only it's the other way around, because Jared guesses this is who Jensen really is at the core of him; standing in front of the altar, praying over the Eucharist and singing the liturgy in a clear, sweet baritone that makes the hairs on Jared's arms stand on end. He's almost unearthly beautiful like this: pristine white vestments over his customary black, green stole glowing bright in contrast. He looks serene; for almost the first time since they've known each other, Jared realises, Jensen looks _confident_.

"Lift up your hearts," Jensen instructs the congregation, and for the first time in years Jared can actually feel it happening. He feels connected to the Mass, a true part of it; he feels connected to _Jensen_ , and that's a hell of a thing.

Time passes in a blur, Sanctus through Consecration through Pater Noster, until Jared is startled by Sandy nudging him discreetly to perform the rite of peace. He bends down to hug her, angling his head to keep an eye on Jensen. He's dipping bread into wine and breaking it in half, the ritual seeming like nothing so much as a study in grace. Every time Jared tries to look away, something keeps drawing him back.

He drifts into line to receive Communion as if sleepwalking, and kneels at Jensen's feet without a qualm.

" _'This is my blood, and the flesh of my body, that will be given up for your sins,'_ " Jensen recites, smiling down at him. " _'Take it and eat, in memory of me.'_ " He winks, breaking the mask of solemnity for an instant, and reaches out to lay the Host on Jared's tongue.

"Amen," Jared whispers. His lips catch on the pads of Jensen's fingers, and it's—

It's like fire bursts to life in his veins.

Jensen pulls his hand back as if he can feel Jared burning. They stare at each other for a moment in silent, shared dismay.

Jared can barely taste the tang of the wine, chewing and swallowing automatically lest he choke. Every nerve is buzzing from that single accidental touch, goosebumps rising up across his arms and chest and back. He's half-hard, afraid to move too quickly in case it shows. He gets slowly to his feet and stumbles back to his seat, breathing deeply and evenly to try and lessen the shock. Sandy puts a hand on his arm, saying something about the heat, concern clear in her tone; he shakes his head but leans forward, using the excuse to hide his face while he tries to get himself under control.

Jared is. He wants. And Jensen isn't—can't—

He sneaks a look back up at the altar. Jensen is going through the motions of distributing Communion, all the majesty gone from his movements. He looks at Jared the moment Jared looks up; their gazes catch and clash, each inhaling a sharp breath at the same time. Jensen looks away first, red blooming high on his cheeks as he returns his attention to the congregation. Jared uses his hair as a shield to watch, ignoring Sandy's comforting hand rubbing at his back, knowing Jensen can feel his stare by the way he holds himself rigid. That simply stokes Jared's want higher; he has the urge to make Jensen melt, see him twist and writhe and bend in a dozen different ways, all of them just for him. The strength of it is frightening.

_Well, that's just fucking awesome_ , Jared thinks, struggling to appear calm. _What the hell do I do now?_

* * *

Jensen's immersed in the Mass at first, as he always is. It's his favourite part of the week, especially the early service. Ordinarily he's irascible and non-communicative first thing in the morning, but there's something about Sunday Mass that makes him feel connected, whole. He finds it easy to slip into the rhythm of the rites and prayers and liturgies, each step in the procession grounding him yet again in the fact of his vocation. It's comforting and uplifting at once, and he treasures that feeling.

He turns around from praying over the Eucharist and notices Jared for the first time, sitting next to Sandy several pews back. He looks sleepy, Jensen thinks, and has to force himself to keep a straight face when he sees Sandy's elbow dig discreetly into Jared's ribs. It puts an extra spring in his step to have Jared there, makes him want to perform better, as though celebrating Mass were a production. There's a certain element of ritual to it, true, but he never really thinks of it in that way. Now, feeling Jared's eyes following his every movement, Jensen wants to show him just how beautiful the service can be.

He doesn't question his desire too closely, or the fact that he's now more focused on Jared than he is on the Transubstantiation. He's getting used to glossing over things like that.

Ministering the sacrament has never seemed like a chore; right now, however, Jensen struggles to maintain a calm demeanour as he doles out the body and blood of Christ. He can see Jared standing two-thirds back in the line, knows Jared's watching him and tries to focus on the person in front of him instead of staring back. He feels strange, like his skin doesn't quite fit, too loose and heavy one moment, tight and strangled the next. He's pretty sure his hands are shaking, but he doesn't look down to check.

By the time it's Jared's turn, Jensen is nearly vibrating with repressed emotions, none of which he's willing to admit. He can't help the aborted move he makes when Jared sinks gracefully to his knees, properly respectful; to cover his nerves, he flashes a half-grin and winks as he reaches for the Eucharist and turns to hand it over. But Jared doesn't take it; instead he opens his mouth, eyes fixed on Jensen's face.

Jensen tries not to make contact. He honestly, truly does. The tremors in his hand betray him at the last instant, and the pads of his fingers graze Jared's bottom lip as he draws away. The roil of tamped-down feelings inside him spring forth with a fury that is shocking, zeroing in on that single, infinitesimal touch, and the whole of him screams out for more.

It's all over in a matter of seconds. Jared's eyes flutter shut for the barest instant as he swallows, then he's back on his feet and walking away, rejoining Sandy as if nothing has happened. Jensen concentrates on trying to breathe, mechanically completing the ritual for those still waiting in line, sneaking glances at Jared every few seconds. Jared is hunched over in the pew, head down, Sandy rubbing gentle circles over his back and exchanging concerned looks with Jared's mother. Jensen swallows hard and turns away, the words of the concluding rite tumbling senselessly in the empty rush of white noise in his mind.

* * *

The _cilice_ bites into his skin when he straps it on, snug and uncomfortable around his left thigh. The sting distracts his body from things it has no right to feel. Jensen only wishes the rest of him could be so easily diverted. Temptation is a subtle, constant thing once admitted, teasing around the edges of everything, leading him to thoughts of heat and skin and sweetness and strength that drive him from his bed. On the nights it doesn't, he tosses and turns in unconscious sensual torment, waking to sheets tangled and damp with sweat and the shape of Jared's name on his lips.

This has to stop, Jensen decides, before things go too far.

It doesn't occur to him that they already might have.

* * *

_He sees Jared down on his knees, good jeans and neat black shirt, and deja vu hits strong. The Host is in his hand, wafer soaked in wine, the_ verba _on his tongue, ready to be spoken to complete the sacrament._

_Jensen reaches out, mouth open to speak. Jared leans in and takes the bread in his mouth, drops of wine sliding over his lips. He nuzzles against Jensen's hand, chews, swallows, never looking away._

_"'This is my blood, and the flesh of my body, that will be given up for your sins,'" Jensen whispers, too late, through numb lips. "'Take it and eat, in memory of me.'"_

_Jared's eyes are closed, lips parted, leaning in to Jensen like a flower to the sun. Somehow Jensen has moved forward until there's no space between them, Jared's forehead resting against his hip, hands gripping the backs of Jensen's thighs through his vestments. Hot breath washes over Jensen's cock, Jared's mouth dangerously close, and Jensen feels faint. The congregation is whispering, muttering, eyes hard and mouths pursed tightly. Sandy sits in the front pew, hands twisting together in dismay, her whole face an accusation._

_Jared looks up at him with half-lidded eyes and smiles slow, languid,_ wicked. __

_"This is my body," he says. "Take it, and sin with me."_

_Jensen's heart stops in his chest. For a moment, all is silence._

_He puts a hand on Jared's head, gently, gently, because he's not a violent man. Jared moans and rubs into the touch, mouthing over Jensen's cock, and Jensen's vision goes red. His hand fists in Jared's hair, the other clawing at his shoulder, dragging Jared up and forward, straight for the altar. Jared comes easily, slamming into his body, mouth sealing over Jensen's as if to steal his very soul. He opens for it, sucks Jared's tongue deep, still driving them up the stairs to the sanctuary. Jared is trying to strip him as they go, scrabbling at chasuble, surplice and stole, whining in frustration when his efforts gain him nothing but more layers of cloth. Jensen grabs his wrists, stilling his explorations, and nudges him against the altar, his back to Jensen's chest._

_"Clear it off," Jensen growls into his neck, and feels Jared shudder._

_The altar cloth makes things easy. Jared grips it and flings the whole mess sideways, leaving the altar bare. The clatter of plate silver and pewter ringing off stone echoes through the choir, as does the shocked gasp of their audience. Jensen doesn't care. He's too busy disrobing, shrugging out of silk and cotton until he's bare to the waist and able to reach around to unzip Jared's fly. Jared's beaten him to it, though; their fingers collide over Jared's crotch, tangling and working together to get Jared ready for him. Jensen leans over, fitting himself to Jared's back, and bites down hard on the point where shoulder blends into elegant neck. Jared angles his head back, baring more skin and tendon, and Jensen licks and kisses his way back down as he draws Jared's shirt off his back. Jared's arms get caught for a moment, trapping him in a backward arch, muscles bunching and flexing as he fights to free himself. Jensen's head spins at the sight—all that grace and beauty and power, all for_ him _—and wrenches at the shirt, tossing it aside and licking a long stripe down to the small of Jared's back. Denim slides away as he approaches, Jared pushing his jeans down, spreading himself wide for the first touch of Jensen's tongue. There's a moan from someone watching, whether of pleasure or disgust Jensen can't tell, but he doesn't stop to check. He's lost in the smell and taste and feel of Jared twitching underneath him, pushing into it, holding himself open while Jensen sinks to his knees._

_He tongues Jared fiercely for endless minutes, stabbing in deep, using spit and Jared's own precome to get him good and wet inside. It's a tight fit, when he slides a finger in to test; Jared clenches hard around him, groaning down low in his chest, every vein and muscle standing out in sharp relief on his arms as he grips the altar. Jensen works in a second finger, sliding his tongue in between, and smiles when Jared jerks at the first touch to his prostate._

_"Jensen," Jared pleads, his voice a bare breath of air. "Please."_

_Jensen flows to his feet, his whole body one dull pulse of want, cock standing out hard and proud and ready. He loosens his cincture and lets his cassock fall below his hips, swiping a hand over his cock to spread his precome, adding to the slick. Leaning over Jared again, he steals another kiss, biting Jared's lower lip as he pulls back. Jared whimpers into his mouth, still holding himself open. Jensen positions himself and drives home in one smooth thrust._

_"Holy fucking Jesus Christ," Jensen grits out between clenched teeth, gripping Jared's hips so hard his knuckles turn white. " _Jared_."_

_"Jensen. Jensen, please." Jared's grinding back against him, slow rolls of his hips, demanding to be fucked. "Move. Please, God, do it, move ..."_

_The open want in Jared's voice is what undoes him. Jensen was going to take it slow, fuck him deep and thorough, but he hears the desperation and it does something to him, feeds off his own desire to take, claim,_ own _. So he slides his palm over Jared's flank, up to his shoulder and back, and whispers, "Just hold on."_

_Slow strokes become quick, hard, frantic thrusts, pushing Jared into the altar, bending him over it until his whole torso is resting flat, arms outstretched to grip the other side. Jared keeps trying to get one knee up, to give Jensen more room, but they're moving too fast and Jensen can't slow it down, not with Jared moaning and writhing under him, bucking into every thrust, keening Jensen's name breathlessly and still demanding more. Jensen's head is spinning, dizzy with possession and power and lust, worshipping Jared's body with every touch. He can't stop touching him, hands pressing him down, sliding over warm skin, bending close to kiss and bite at back and shoulders while his hips hitch and grind and fuck. He can feel the explosion coming, drawing his balls up tight, every muscle tensing in anticipation; he reaches around to fist Jared's cock, wanting them to go together. Jared's voice breaks when Jensen touches him, knees weakening and spreading impossibly wider, and it's only seconds before he's crying out and coming in cool white pulses over Jensen's hand. The feel of it excites Jensen beyond rationality, beyond anything; he brings his soiled hand up to his mouth and licks it, and the act kickstarts his own orgasm, leaving him shuddering and blindly thrusting a few final strokes before he collapses flat on Jared's back._

_Again, there is silence. Jensen can't hear anything except the sounds of himself and Jared breathing. He doesn't want to know anything more than that, so he closes his eyes against the rest of the world and holds Jared tighter._

_By the time other voices start to filter in, horrified and revolted and shocked, the scene is already beginning to fade._

* * *

Jensen tries to avoid thinking for the next few days. He keeps his gaze averted from the altar, finds other things to do that prevent him from celebrating Mass on Tuesday, and pretty much manages to fool himself into thinking he's okay.

Every morning between ten and twelve, he wears the _cilice_ around his left thigh. Its metal spikes dig into his skin, reminding him of his imperfection. Every evening he prays in halting tones to the Virgin, mortifying the flesh of his back with a lash until his arms ache and each blow stings with sweat. Every night his dreams grow more and more vivid, lurid, lustful; he wakes up with a gnawing ache of want inside like he hasn't felt since ... that he hasn't felt in a very long time. No amount of activity or penance or flagellation seems to help.

Jensen is definitely not okay.

The skin on his back is raw and tender, the neat rows of bruises on his thigh turning purple and red and green, when he finally gives in and dials Chris's number. It feels like admitting a weakness, that he can't handle this by himself; he should be able to cope by now instead of running to Chris for help all the time. He can't deny the relief he feels, though, when Chris picks up on the second ring and drawls at him down the line.

"I was beginnin' to think your fingers fell off, boy. You forget how to dial?"

"Might ask you the same question," Jensen shoots back, sinking down comfortably on the couch. He's already relaxing, something unwinding in his chest at the sound of Chris's lazy tone. "How've you been?"

"Same old same old. I'm just kickin' about the place, enjoying life in the world." Chris avoids specifics, like always. Jensen suspects he lives hand to mouth a lot more often than he lets on, but Chris won't stand for anything he perceives as a handout. "What about you? How's life in a small town?"

"It's ... fine," Jensen says, and immediately wants to kick himself. "It's small, you know, but nice. Good people. I like it."

"But?"

"But." He sighs, and runs a hand over the back of his neck, head down. "I kind of have a—conflict."

"Of faith?" Chris asks, voice sharp as a knife.

"Of—" Jensen swallows. "Of interest." He drops his hand to rest over the _cilice_ bruises, squeezing a little to make himself go on. "I ... there's a young couple, just got engaged, and I was meeting with them for the counselling, you know, and—"

"And you got attached," Chris finishes when he trails off. "I get it, man, it's okay. Happens to all of us now and then. What's her name?"

"Um." Jensen plays with a loose thread at the hem of his t-shirt. "Jared."

"... _his_ name. Is Jared," Chris repeats. "Well, well, well."

"Shut up," he mutters. His face is hot. He must be blushing a dozen shades of red.

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to. I can hear you smirking from here."

"Oh, come on now, Jen. I think it's great. Very progressive of you to latch on to a guy instead of a chick. Another step forward for the Catholic GLBT agenda."

"Shut _up_ ," Jensen groans, shutting his eyes. "This is not good news! This is a fucking disaster."

Something of his misery must seep through his voice, because Chris's next words are serious, all teasing aside. "How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad." He swallows again, hard. "I—he's ... I really like him, Chris. And I think—I think he maybe likes me back."

Saying it out loud like that makes it real in a way he's been trying to deny for days. He remembers the look on Jared's face as he knelt before Jensen at Communion; the flash of heat in Jared's eyes as their gazes connected, Jensen's fingers inches from Jared's lips, Jared's face level with Jensen's hips and only empty space between them. He can clearly recall the impulse he had to simply step forward, let Jared nuzzle into his vestments until he found skin. He presses into the couch, letting the burn of the welts on his back remind him why those thoughts are a bad idea.

"You gotta calm down," Chris is telling him, and Jensen tries to settle down and listen. "You ain't the first priest found himself in the middle of a situation like this, and you sure as hell won't be the last. Don't beat yourself up over it."

Jensen stifles a snort. Chris knows him far too well.

"I know, I know," he says. "It just—it sucks, man. A lot."

"I hear that."

Jensen's pretty sure Chris hears everything he isn't saying, as well; Chris has been in the same situation, after all. He feels better for having called. Even if he hasn't resolved anything, is still confused and aching and scared of his own emotions, it's helpful to remember that Chris has gone through all this too.

"What made you do it?" he asks suddenly. "When you left?"

"I had no choice," Chris replies after a moment. "Flat-out, pure and simple. They wouldn't let me stay; I couldn't give her up. I'm not sayin' it was easy, but it was the only way for me."

"Are you happier, outside? Even after?"

"I'm ... freer." Chris clears his throat. "That's worth a lot."

Jensen bites at his thumbnail, thinking. He doesn't know. He's not sure of anything anymore.

"Would you come back, if you could?" he says.

"Ain't no point to wonderin'," Chris says. "There's no take-backs, Jensen. Once you're out, that's it. Game over."

He sounds like he's warning Jensen off, but it's his Big Brother protective voice rather than a genuinely pissed-off tone, so Jensen isn't worried. He's still conflicted as fuck, but he's almost getting used to it now.

"I'd better go," he says finally. "It's getting late."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. I'll just—deal with it," Jensen tells him, wishing it were that easy. "It'll pass. Or it won't, and I'll go completely off the rails and set up shop in the watchtower with a rifle."

"Yeah, right," Chris snorts. "The day I see you holding a firearm, I'll eat every goddamn hat I own."

"Don't tempt me." Jensen grins. "Thanks, Chris."

"Anytime, little brother." Chris's voice is warm. "Keep me posted, huh?"

"I will. Goodnight," he says, and waits for Chris to hang up first.

He actually sleeps that night, and if there are any dreams, he doesn't remember them. But Jensen isn't really surprised to see Chris turn up on his doorstep two days later.

* * *

It's been a week, and Jensen won't talk to him. Jared's called half a dozen times, dropped by the church after work once or twice, but he's had total radio silence from Jensen since Sunday and it's officially pissing him off. Yeah, sure, priest in the middle of a sexual crisis, he gets it—but Jensen's not the only one flipping out here. Jared's never even _thought_ about guys, or anyone except Sandy, really, so finding himself in the unique position of wanting to fuck his priest is fucking with his head. He'd really like to talk about it to someone, and Jensen is definitely the man for that job, except for the part where he's somehow turned into the Phantom and Jared can't find him anywhere.

This afternoon, Jared knows Jensen has to be at the church. Father Bob's gone to San Antonio to meet with the bishop; Jared saw him at the gas station on his way out of town this morning. He won't be back till late, so Jensen has to be on hand to pick up any slack. There probably won't be any—this isn't the kind of town where there's much in the way of religious crises—but Jared knows Jensen takes his duties seriously. He'll be at the church, and Jared will be able to corner him and figure out what the fuck is going on. Because he _wants_ , still, after a week of trying not to think about it, and why else would Jensen be avoiding him if he didn't have the same problem? If he isn't as white-knuckled terrified as Jared is of what might happen next?

Jared knows he might be blowing this way out of proportion. He's not exactly emotionally stable right now—he's getting married, for crying out loud—and Jensen's new and interesting, giving him second thoughts about the whole thing. But the other thoughts he's been having, the ones involving mouths and hands and cocks and pretty green (not brown) eyes, are enough to propel him into this course of action. He needs to get this thing settled now, before it goes any further. So Jared walks the quarter-mile to the church after lunch and slips quietly into the nave, heart thumping like he just ran a marathon.

Jensen's there, kneeling before the altar, head bowed and hands clasped around his rosary. Jared just looks at him for a minute, stealing up the aisle, drinking in the sight of wide shoulders and slim hips and strangely vulnerable bare neck, enclosed by the stiff black-over-white of his collar. Jared circles him to the left and just stands there for a minute, watching Jensen's lips silently moving through a Hail Mary as his fingers work over the beads in his hands. It makes Jared feel ... _unchaste_ , watching him like this. He's having ideas about Jensen's mouth that should have him excommunicated on the spot. Even worse, he's finding it damned hard to care.

He waits until Jensen's finished with his repetition before he speaks.

"Jensen."

The start Jensen gives would be funny in other circumstances. He watches as Jensen takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, slipping his rosary over his head and letting it slip down under his shirt, and wishes he could see it lying on Jensen's naked skin.

"What are you doing here?" Jensen asks, not quite meeting his eyes.

He pushes gracefully to his feet and sticks his hands in his pockets. Jared tries not to notice how his pants pull tight across his hips, and fails.

"We need to talk," he says. "About—you know."

"Do we?" Jensen shrugs. "Okay then. Talk."

He's not giving anything away, but he won't look Jared in the eye and his hands are making fists beneath black cloth. Jared takes that as a sign that he's not gonna be making a fool of himself, at least. _What the hell_ , he thinks. It'll drive him crazy if he doesn't say something.

"It's not just me, right?" he asks. "Last Sunday, during Communion. And probably before that, I guess. Little things building up into one big thing. Too big to ignore, anyway. I mean, I know you guys are good at denial, but it's _not_ just me."

Jensen doesn't answer, but he darts a glance at Jared's face and quickly looks away again.

"Come on, Jensen. I could really use some help with this." Jared rolls his eyes when Jensen backs off a step, looking nervous. "Not like _that_ , for—look. I'm confused, all right? I need to talk about this. I can't exactly go to my parents or Sandy or Bob and say 'hey, I think I'm hot for the new priest, does that mean I'm going to hell?'. That pretty much just leaves you. And if I'm right, if it's _not_ just me, then you're the only person I should be talking to anyway." He holds out his hands in appeal. "Talk to me, Jensen. Help me out. Please?"

Jensen licks his lips, teeth worrying the bottom one for a fraction of a second, and Jared gets fixated. He has to concentrate to listen when Jensen finally opens his mouth to talk, because right now he's imagining it doing much more interesting things.

"You're not going to hell," Jensen says, and hey, that's a start. "I don't—I can't help you with the rest of it, but you're not going to hell, Jared."

He's lying. Jared can tell by the way he's glancing around, one hand scratching nervously through his hair, blinking so fast he's almost fluttering his lashes. Jensen doesn't lie a lot, that much is obvious. It's just as obvious that he's not telling Jared everything. Jared figures this probably shouldn't make him feel better, but it does.

"Leviticus—" he starts, but Jensen waves that away before he gets any more out.

"Leviticus says not to wear synthetic fibres, too. Or eat shellfish, for crying out loud. I don't think you need to take your cues from that."

"Who am I supposed to take them from, then?" Jared says. "Church says it's not right, no way, no how, and you damn well know it."

Jensen hesitates, and Jared knows he's scored a hit. He takes a step forward, pressing his advantage; this time Jensen doesn't back up.

"I," Jensen says. "Jared. You can't do this. It's not right."

"Because you're a priest?" Jared says, still closing in. "Or because you're a man?"

"Because you're engaged," Jensen says, and that stops him cold. Jensen's face is a study in helpless confusion. "Homosexual feelings aren't sinful, Jared, but adultery is."

"I'm not married yet," Jared whispers.

"You might as well be."

The tension that's been building up in Jared's body all this time dissipates just like that, under the truth of those five simple words. Jensen's right; he's as committed to Sandy as he can get without the actual ceremony taking place, and that's only a few weeks away. This whole thing is crazy; he _knows_ this, it's why he came to see Jensen in the first place, to try and get a handle on it. He's only ended up more confused than before, though, and Jensen's not really helping. Jared still wants him, still itches to put his hands on that body and kiss that mouth to the exclusion of everything else, and Jensen reminding him it's a mortal sin doesn't change it one fucking iota.

But he's right. What Jared wants is wrong, no two ways about it. He just—he doesn't understand how something that makes him feel like this can be wrong. He looks at Jensen and he feels light. Free. _Happy_. And so fucking hard he aches with it. It's never been like this with Sandy; she's gorgeous, she's comfort and contentment and home, and he still feels that way. This fire in his blood—that's all for Jensen. All for _them_ , together, wherever, whenever. Jared would go to his knees right now if he thought it'd make a difference.

Jared sighs and backs off, giving Jensen back his space. He's looking down at the floor, so he almost misses it: the tiny move Jensen makes in his direction, one hand reaching toward him before Jensen snaps it back to his side.

"Jensen," Jared breathes, looking up, and he catches Jensen red-handed.

There's a moment of silence, where all the want and need and flat-out burning _lust_ Jared's feeling is right there on Jensen's face, so hot he can barely stand it; the next instant it's gone, hidden behind a blank mask that conceals exactly nothing. Jared's not fooled. An hour ago he might've been, but he knows what he saw. He takes that single step forward again, eyes fixed on Jensen's face.

"Don't," Jensen says, a desperate plea, but he's not moving.

The sound they make as they hit the wall is heavy; significant. It means something, but Jared can't think about it right now because he's kissing Jensen and Jensen is kissing _back_ , and his whole world has shrunk to this. He's pressing Jensen into the stone, forearms resting beside Jensen's head, and there's a long line of flaring heat between them where they touch. Jensen's almost _wild_ , clutching fistfuls of Jared's shirt and riding his thigh, still desperate but now it's a fight to get closer, not to keep Jared away.

One hand slides up to fist in Jared's hair, and Jensen's mouth opens easily when Jared flicks his tongue, asking silently for permission. Then it's nothing but warm and wet and hard, Jensen fucking _keening_ when Jared pulls away to gasp for air, biting and licking at his throat until Jared takes his face in both hands and dives back in for more.

This is what sin feels like: pure decadence, Jensen thrusting against him, holding him close, tongues colliding and trading control of the kiss. Jared wants more, wants to get Jensen's skin under his hands, wants to get all he can out of this moment, but he can't let go long enough to make a move. Jensen's on the same page; he pulls Jared's shirt apart with one hand, snaps giving way easily with quiet little pops, and then he's got a hand on Jared's bare chest, thumbnail raking over one nipple until it's hard and sensitive. Jared moans into Jensen's mouth and it's like a dam busting open—they're tearing at each other's belts, leather and buttons and the rasp of zippers loud over their panting breaths. Jensen shows no hesitation now: he pulls Jared back in and palms him through his briefs, and Jared thrusts into it without quite meaning to. He traps Jensen's hand between them, leaning all his weight against Jensen and the wall, starting a slow grind that brings a low moan from Jensen's throat. He reaches down and fits his hand in next to Jensen's, feeling the hot damp they've created, Jensen's cock nudging the side of his palm with every move he makes. It's barely second base, there's no skin-to-skin contact, and he's wound tighter than he's ever been in his _life_.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jared," Jensen gasps, and the sound of that blasphemy coming out of Jensen's careful, cautious mouth ... that's just _it_ , right there. Jared closes his fingers around Jensen's cock and rubs against him hard, _onetwothree_ , and closes his eyes while he shudders and comes. It's not his first orgasm; it's not even his first orgasm with someone else present, but it's the first one that's ever made him feel like he could die happy right now.

Jensen's mouth is back at his neck, Jared's collarbone between his teeth as Jared brings him off with quick, hard strokes. He's still tingling from his own orgasm when Jensen stiffens in his hold and his hand is flooded with wet, and Jensen's sharp, pungent scent rises up to blend with his own under the smells of incense and candle wax. Jared strokes him through it, pulling back only when Jensen flinches away and slumps forward with his forehead on Jared's neck. They're huffing like horses rode hard, sweaty and soiled and gross, and Jared's never felt more satisfied.

He already wants it again. More, as much as he can get, as much as Jensen will give him. He should find that scary, but he still can't think.

A minute stretches into two, then five, and they're still clinging to each other, hard up by the wall just outside the choir. Jared's got a hand on Jensen's waist and the other on the back of his neck, and Jensen's gripping his shoulders, elbows hooked underneath in a reverse hold, his fingers dancing over Jared's scapula. They're breathing in sync now, but it's still gross and getting grosser by the minute, and Jared's about to suggest they find a bathroom when Jensen pulls away completely.

"Jensen?" He reaches out; Jensen flinches away from the touch, horror clear in his eyes. "Oh, Jensen, no—come on, don't—"

"What have I done?" Jensen asks in a hoarse whisper, and he's gone before Jared can take a breath to respond.

He follows him outside, but it's like Jensen's disappeared into the ether. He's not in his cottage; the door's open when Jared tries it, and the place feels empty. He's not anywhere in the church or the graveyard, and Jared has to admit he doesn't know where else Jensen would go. It's defeat, and he hates it, hates leaving things like this between them, but Jensen hasn't given him much choice. His step is heavy when he finally heads for home, his questions answered but nothing resolved, and everything just as messed up as it was before. Maybe more so. Now he can't get the taste of Jensen out of his mouth, and he knows he'll have vivid dreams tonight.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It's barely seven in the morning when Chris's truck roars up the drive, spraying gravel as he pulls in neatly next to Jensen's F-150. Jensen knows the engine immediately; he's at the door with a smile on his face before he registers moving.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" he says as Chris gets his duffel out of the back.

"You watch your mouth, boy," Chris replies with a grin, bounding up onto the porch and yanking him into a one-armed hug. "That any way for a man of God to talk?"

"Only seems to happen around you." Jensen grins at Chris's chuckle and steps to the side. "Come in, asshole. You want some coffee?"

"Is the Pope a Catholic?"

Jensen doesn't grace that with an answer, just points Chris to a seat at the kitchen table and gets another mug out of the cupboard. He doesn't say so, and Chris won't ask, but Jensen's beyond relieved that he's here. He needs a buffer, something to remind him that there's more to the world than his growing fascination with Jared. Chris is solid, safe, _real_ ; Jensen already feels more grounded, and that's worth a lot right now. There won't be any dreams while Chris is here. He's sure of that, at least.

Chris gulps down the first swallows of coffee with no pretence at manners, sliding the mug across the table for a refill when he's done. He looks good: tanned and healthy and contented, no sign of conflict anywhere in him. Jensen hands him a second hit of caffeine and sits down opposite with his own mug, straddling a chair backwards.

"You staying long?" he asks.

"Depends." Chris raises an eyebrow at him. "You grow a set in the past two days?"

"No." Jensen flushes, digging his thumbnail into the wood of the tabletop. "I've—I'm—"

"Hip-deep in denial, avoiding the subject, I get it," Chris finishes. "Jen, come on. You can't let this go on. Deal with it, one way or another, or it'll fuck you up. And you're too good a priest for that to happen."

"You think so?" Jensen looks up, surprised and shamefully pleased.

"No, I think you're a total loser. S'why I keep hanging around you all the time. I got a masochistic streak a mile wide." Chris rolls his eyes. "Anyone with half an eye can see you've got a true vocation. And I can tell you're in trouble over this guy, so. Here I am." He spreads his arms wide. "Enforcer, yenta or outside observer, your choice. Tell me what you want."

There was a time, Jensen thinks, when hearing those words out of Chris's mouth would have tied him up in knots for days. He would've analysed them for hidden meaning, gone over every change of tone and inflection to determine if Chris was trying to say what Jensen wanted to hear, without coming right out with it. Now, he looks at Chris and just feels ... warmth. This is his brother, in every way that counts, and he's glad to see him—but that's it. There's nothing else. Whatever spark used to be there, it's gone, redirected elsewhere, and Jensen can't be sorry. Not if it gives him his brother back.

"Let's start with 'outside observer' first, and then I'll let you know," he says, and clinks his mug to Chris's. "Good to see you, man. And ... thanks."

"Anytime," Chris replies, throwing him a fond smile. Then he downs the rest of his coffee and looks around. "Right, I got a case of beer in the truck and it needs chillin'. Better make room in your fridge and clear out your plans for tonight, because we are gonna get _hammered_."

Jensen can't hold back his laughter. It feels good.

"You're going to hell, you know that?"

"All the best people are, bro," Chris tells him, and Jensen can't really argue with that.

* * *

It takes all of thirty seconds for Chris to decide that the drive was worth his coming, because Jensen looks like _shit_. He's known the kid since he was six, he's seen Jensen in every stage of emotional upset, and it's never been like this. Jensen looks tortured, almost, face all tight and holding himself like he's afraid to move free. Even when things were at their weirdest between the two of them, it never got this bad. Beer isn't gonna fix it, he can see that, but it'll do for a start.

He tags along with Jensen to meet Father Singer—" _Call me Bob_ ," the old guy says—and he seems okay. He gets on with Jensen, which is the important thing. Jensen doesn't say anything about Chris except that they go way back, so Chris doesn't have to deal with the whole defrocked-priest thing. He appreciates that. Sometimes people get a little hot under the collar about it—pun intended.

"Seems like an okay gig you got here," Chris says after they're done making nice to Bob and he sends them on their way. Jensen shrugs and rubs a hand over his neck, but he's smiling and he looks a little more relaxed.

"It's not so bad," he agrees. "People are nice."

"Some more than others, huh." Chris watches the flush rise over Jensen's face and reminds himself to keep a lid on the teasing. "Okay, so let's go introduce me. Half a dozen folks saw me drive into town, so I bet the rumours are already flyin'. Me turnin' up on your doorstep so bright and early and all."

He grins wicked and watches as Jensen catches up, the look of horror loosening some of the misery from his face.

"Oh, _hell_ ," Jensen groans, and all but drags him out of the church.

"Six Hail Marys for blaspheming in church!" Chris dodges the cuff Jensen aims at his head and gets him in a headlock for a minute, mindless brotherly tussling. "Jesus, whatever happened to turning the other cheek?"

"Did you forget?" Jensen lets him go, panting a bit and smiling. "I got kicked out of Sunday school. Twice."

"Brat." Chris jerks his head. "Come on. Let's go convince people I'm an international spy."

"As if."

They walk the half-mile into town, strides matching out of long habit. Chris fills the silence by catching Jensen up on everything he's been doing lately—which basically amounts to moving aimlessly around the country every few months, picking up session gigs and studio work when he can, busking when he can't. He leaves out any mention of his love life, which truth be told isn't that great anyway, hasn't been for a while. It's okay, though. He's happy enough, doesn't regret anything. At least he'll never have to wonder, never have any might-have-beens. And who knows, he might get lucky yet. Never say never. Chris is an optimist. He's lost his collar, but he's still got faith.

Jensen lets him ramble until they reach the town proper. Then he stops Chris with a hand on his arm right around the corner from the diner, and dusts him off with a proprietary air, tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration. Chris eyes him with more than a hint of disbelief, not trying to stop the grin curling at the edges of his mouth. Jensen looks up and catches him, and his pretty-boy face flushes red again.

"What?"

"You're not my mama, Jensen. Don't need to clean me up so the neighbours won't think I'm a hellion."

"You _are_ a hellion," Jensen mutters, but he leaves off with the primping and they step out into the street.

It's not a big town: half a dozen streets laid down in a grid, diner, drugstore and post office on one side of the honest-to-God town square, supermarket and greengrocer on the other. Jensen tells him there's services scattered elsewhere through town, doctor's offices and an accountant, and there's a bar hidden away near the train line behind the gas station, and that's about it. They're close enough to San Antonio to get anything they need, far enough away to feel like a backwater. The people here seem to like it that way.

They take to him well enough, the ones he meets anyway. Mrs Tucker and Mrs Gamble, huddled together over a coffee in the diner, they all but stumble over each other in their haste to bid him good day. Chris pours on the charm a little thicker than he should, grins at Jensen's fuming expression as the ladies twitter and flirt shamelessly. He exchanges pleasantries with the postmaster, Mr Kripke, a nervous, balding little guy with a Star Wars fixation, if the display behind the counter is anything to go by. It's all real nice and easygoing until Jensen stops outside the gas station, face tight again like he's been sucking on a lemon.

"I take it Jared works here," Chris says, and Jensen twitches. Bingo.

"In the workshop. He owns the garage."

"A greasemonkey. Hm." Chris looks around the place for a moment, taking in the old guy peering at them through the window of the gas station. "Well, best get it over with. Let's go take a look at him, before the dude inside thinks we're casing the joint."

He starts forward, but Jensen grabs his arm and swings him around so he's facing the road. Jensen looks horrified again, but seriously this time, almost like he's panicked.

"You can't. I mean, I can't. I can't _see_ him," he blurts out, and this time the blush is like his skin's actually on fire. Chris considers him, looking at the signs, seeing the way Jensen can't meet his eyes but keeps flicking his gaze over to the side, to see if Jared's coming out.

"Something's happened," Chris realises. "Since you called me. Y'all have—Jensen, did you break your vows?"

"No!" Jensen rocks back in shock, but Chris sees guilt in his eyes. "I mean, I—Chris, I _swear_ I didn't—"

"Don't," Chris says, and Jensen shuts up fast. "Don't swear to me, Jensen, and don't lie to me either. I ain't gonna judge you. Just tell me what's going on."

"I. He." Jensen chews on his lip, all fidgety hands and shifting feet. "There was—he came to see me, day before yesterday. He was pissed because I've been avoiding him. Since. You know. And things got a little ... out of hand."

There's a hell of a lot Jensen isn't telling him, but Chris gets the picture clear enough. Something happened, and Jensen probably liked it, and now he's flipping out big time. This is the one problem with Jensen, Chris thinks. He always believes he's gotta be perfect, and it kills a part of him every time he's reminded that he's not.

"Okay," Chris says. "So we don't meet him now. No big deal." He checks his watch. "It's nearly lunch time. Let's go back to the diner, you can buy me a burger. Or ribs. They got decent ribs here?"

"Haven't, uh, tried 'em yet," Jensen says after a second, visibly unwinding. "Those things'll kill you."

"Wuss," Chris accuses, and slings an arm over his shoulder as they turn to walk back into town. "I'm gonna buy a full rack and make you eat half."

"In your dreams," Jensen shoots back.

Chris pokes him in the ribs and Jensen shouts with unwilling laughter, ticklish as all get out. Chris catches a glimpse of movement behind him and sees a guy standing at the corner of the gas station, just where it joins the workshop, staring at them. He's a real tall drink of water, all cheekbones and muscled arms, and Chris knows without a doubt this has got to be Jared. Trust Jensen to go for a pretty one.

He smiles big and ruffles Jensen's hair, watches the eyes get harder and the expression darker for a moment before Jared slips away. Interesting. He's looking forward to meeting the guy properly, that's for sure. At the very least, Jensen's not in this alone; for a guy who's supposedly newly engaged, Jared sure looked like he wanted to set Chris on fire just for breathing Jensen's air.

"Food," he orders, and gives Jensen a shove. Time enough for Jared later. Right now he wants to eat.

* * *

The ribs _are_ good, but it turns out the burgers are better, so Chris gets one of those too, and a chocolate shake. He lets Jensen escape halfway through lunch to go hold confession, and tells him he'll be fine wandering around town until five. He sits a spell in the diner after lunch, having coffee with the owners. Tom and Jamie seem like nice folks, like most everyone around here. Chris keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, but maybe he's just a paranoid sonofabitch and needs to relax himself. Jensen's not the only one who's got issues.

Jensen doesn't have any limes, and Chris is damned if he'll drink Corona without them, so he heads over to the greengrocer's on his way back to the church. It's cool inside, a welcome respite despite the quick dash across the square. Chris takes his hat off to wipe his brow with a bandana.

"So you're the guy everyone's been yakking about," comes a light voice off to the side. "Figured you had to have at least three heads, the way folks've been going on."

Chris looks over and sees a young blond guy in a green apron, standing behind a counter like he owns the place and looking Chris up and down like he's a side of beef. It ought to raise Chris's hackles, but it doesn't. This guy's not spoiling for a fight.

"Christian Kane," he says easily, and ambles over to shake hands. "Friend of Jensen's. And you are ...?"

"Chad Murray. I own this place," Chad says. He wipes his hand on his apron before shaking Chris's hand. "How you doing?"

"I'm okay." Chris looks around the place. "Need some limes. You got any?"

"Second aisle, down past the melons." Chad points without looking, eyes still glued to him. "Six for a dollar."

"Thanks."

He gets six, heads back to the checkout. Chad's brushing dirt off a bunch of parsnips; his eyes light up when he sees Chris come back. He's not bad looking, in a sly-preppy kind of way. Chris crooks a half-smile at him and gets a blinder in return. _Wow_. Then he looks down and sees that Chad's kind of ... _fondling_ one of the vegetables, and he has to look away or burst out laughing.

"You in town for long?" Chad asks while he rings up the fruit.

"Couple days, maybe longer." Chris hands over a five-spot. "Might see how things go."

"Cool." Chad's fingers brush his when he hands over the change. "See you around?"

It's a question, rather than a sendoff. Chris looks at the hopeful light in the guy's eyes and grins again despite himself.

"Maybe," he says, and tips a finger to his hat in salute as he leaves.

* * *

He doesn't actually meet Jared until the following night. Jensen offers to buy him dinner, which Chris takes to mean that Jensen's cooking skills are still pretty much limited to can-opening and microwaving. So they head back up to the diner on the proviso that Jensen allows Chris to buy more beer. Jensen agrees with a halfhearted scowl, and Chris smirks and points out that only half the empties in the Corona box are his.

"Shut up," Jensen says, and shoves him out the front door.

They eat steak and mashed potatoes at the diner, and Chris gets hailed by half a dozen people he met the day before, Chad among them. Jensen gives Chris a look after Chad says a stammering goodbye, which Chris returns with interest.

"Something on your mind?" he says.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing," Jensen responds, flicking a glance at Chad's retreating form.

Chris smiles and keeps his thoughts to himself. So Chad is cute; doesn't mean he has to do anything about it. Even though the guy practically _radiates_ a 'take me, I'm yours' vibe every time he looks in Chris's direction. He's only here for a couple days. No point in starting something he can't finish.

Jensen takes his silence with ill grace—"spillin' my guts over here, and you won't tell me a thrice-damned _thing_ "—but Chris can tell he's not really bitching, just trying to get a rise out of him, to feel less vulnerable about his own situation. They pay up and step outside, warm night air scented with jasmine making him breathe in deep, and that's when Jensen goes stock-still by his side. Chris follows the direction of his gaze, and sees Jared about twenty feet away, walking hand in hand with a tiny brunette that just _has_ to be the fiancée.

"Jensen!"

Chris's half-formed evasive manoeuvre—go back inside, ask for pie—falls apart when the fiancée catches sight of them. He claps Jensen on the shoulder as they turn to face the other couple, and hopes they get through this in one piece.

"Hi, Sandy," Jensen says, painfully polite. "Jared."

Jared nods, a bare inch of movement. His eyes flick from Jensen to Chris and back again, narrowed and brilliant green.

"This is my, uh ... this is Christian Kane—Chris." Jensen shuffles his feet. "He's visiting for a few days. Chris, this is Sandy McCoy and Jared Padalecki. They're getting married in a few weeks."

"Pleasure," Chris says, and shakes Sandy's hand with a smile. He makes sure to meet Jared's eyes with the same expression, casually interested, and gives the guy points when he doesn't try to crush Chris's hand. "Y'all have a nice town. I can see why Jensen likes it here."

"Thank you," Sandy responds, a sweet smile lighting up her face. "We love having him here. He's settled in so fast, it's like he's always been around. Makes the town a better place."

Jared says nothing, but he's dropped Sandy's hand and he's not even trying to smile; his arms are folded over his chest, jaw thrust out just shy of combative, and Chris thinks that if he makes one wrong move there's going to be a dust-up right here on Main Street. He throws a look at Jensen, _say something, moron_ , and breathes a sigh of relief when Jensen clears his throat and tears his eyes away from Jared's face.

"How are the wedding plans coming along?" Jensen asks, and that's enough to get Sandy off and running.

They make an uneasy foursome, Chris fielding Sandy and Jensen's conversation while Jared stands there and glowers, and it's the most uncomfortable ten minutes Chris has experienced since his last interview with the bishop in Dallas. It'd be funny if he couldn't sense the sparks between Jared and Jensen, but as it is, Chris just ends up wanting to get drunk. Really, shitfaced drunk. It's not the best denial tactic in the world, but it comes with the repentance and suffering built in.

"You staying long?" Jared says finally, cutting through Sandy's diatribe about caterers. He's staring right at Chris, eyes hard, and Chris has had just about enough of this asshattery, thank you kindly.

"Might be," he drawls with a wink. "Depends on when m'boy here decides he's sick of havin' me around." He puts an arm around Jensen's shoulders and lets his hand dangle down over Jensen's chest, casually proprietary. "Haven't seen him in a while. We got a lot of catching up to do."

He already knows Jensen's going to tear him a new one when they get home, but it's worth it to see the furious look in Jared's eyes. Chris lets his grin widen and claps Jensen on the back as he withdraws his arm.

"Speaking of which, we better get goin'," he says cheerfully. "All that beer ain't gonna drink itself. Sandy, Jared, it's been great. Hope I bump into y'all again while I'm in town."

"I'll make sure of it," Jared replies through clenched teeth, smiling only when Sandy looks up at him in puzzlement. Jensen shifts uncomfortably and mumbles a quiet goodbye as Chris propels him down the street.

The minute they're out of earshot, Jensen punches him _hard_ in the arm, twice.

"What the fuck are you _doing_?" he demands. "That was about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face, you ass."

"Did the trick, though." Chris runs a hand over his face, eyeing Jensen thoughtfully. "You're in deep shit, little brother. That boy is stuck on you."

"Yeah, I got that part," Jensen grits out. "That's real helpful. Thanks."

He sighs and stops walking, slumping against the wall of the post office. Chris looks back up the street and sees Jared watching them from the other side of the square, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

"Well, you wanted observation. I'm just doin' my job," he says, and squeezes Jensen's shoulder. "Come on. Let's head home and have a drink, yeah?"

Jensen nods and pushes off the wall, and they walk in silence back to the church. Chris keeps a hand on Jensen's shoulder the whole time, offering wordless support. Stuck Jared might be, but there's still a diamond glittering on Sandy's pretty little finger. Whichever way this pans out, someone's gonna end up crying. He just hopes it isn't Jensen.

* * *

_Jensen doesn't answer his knock at first, and Jared spends a horrible minute thinking it's because Chris won't let him out of bed. Reason reasserts itself, however—he knows Jensen wouldn't. Hasn't. Chris wasn't like that, he said, and Jared believes him. Doesn't stop the burn of jealousy whenever he sees them together, but there's nothing he can do about that. If jealousy were rational, it wouldn't exist._

_A minute passes, and Jared bangs on the door again. It's the middle of the night, a warm breeze stirring the trees and lifting the ends of his hair to curl around his ears. Jared doesn't think about what he's doing. He just shoves his hands in his pockets and waits. Jensen will answer this time, and then—_

_"Jared?"_

_Jensen's got the door open, filtered moonlight through clouds falling on his half-naked form. He's peering at Jared owlishly, hair mussed up and blue pajama bottoms riding low on his hips. A black wooden rosary adorns his neck, crucifix dipping between his pectoral muscles. His head tilts to one side in sleepy confusion, but it clears away in a hurry when Jared steps forward into his space._

_"Oh._ Oh. _Jared—" Jensen takes a sharp breath, his chest brushing against Jared's. "Come inside."_

Before anyone sees you _, he doesn't add, but Jared's already moving, pushing him back and closing the door behind them, locking it securely. Jensen stands in the middle of his living room, arms crossed over his chest defensively like he doesn't know what Jared's doing there._

_"You and Chris," Jared says, before he can think better of it. "You really never ...?"_

_"Never." Jensen stands a little straighter, raises his chin. "I told you before."_

_"I know. I know. I just." Jared takes a step. "It's hard to believe."_

_"Believe it." Jensen sounds sure; he's looking straight at Jared, no hiding, no hesitation. "That's not what I want anymore."_

_Jared's heart bangs painfully against his ribs. The air is thick, suddenly, hard to breathe, and God, he's so_ hot _. Jensen's gaze doesn't leave his, doesn't even flicker, and Jared's hands start to itch._

_"What do you want?" he rasps, dragging the words out._

_Jensen smiles, showing teeth and a hint of wet pink tongue. His eyes glitter in the half-light, full of shady promise._

_"I think you can figure it out."_

_Jared's pretty sure this can't really be happening. God's not this good to him. But when Jensen crooks a finger at him and disappears into the hall, he's hard pressed to find a reason to care. He just follows, praying he doesn't wake up._

_Jensen's naked back urges him on, flashes of skin beckoning as Jared follows him into the bedroom. It's less of a surprise than it should be when he gets a good look, realises Jensen's skin is marred with thin white lines and newer red ones, crisscrossing from shoulders to hips in messy angles down the length of his back. There's bruising around some of the recent marks, purple and red fading to yellow, and some of the welts are raised. It looks painful. It looks deliberate. It makes Jared harder, imagining Jensen down on his knees, shirt off, using a whip on himself like that._

_"Thinking of me?" he says, trailing light fingers over Jensen's back._

_Jensen shivers under his touch and drops his head, gives the slightest of nods. Jared comes up close behind him, stripping off his own shirt as he does, and presses them skin to skin. His arms go around Jensen's waist, his face tucked into the warm skin of Jensen's neck. The beads of the rosary are hard against his cheek._

_"There'll be hell to pay for this," Jensen whispers, hands coming up to grip his wrists. Jared nods, kisses stubbled skin._

_"Worth it," he whispers back._

_Jensen's smile, when he turns around, is incendiary. He puts both hands on Jared's chest and digs his nails in._

_"Prove it."_

_Jared's not expecting the sideways shove that knocks him onto the bed, but he's not complaining. Jensen follows him down, hands already roaming as he slithers his way up Jared's body, straddling his hips. Jared arches up into his weight, hands pinned by his shoulders, and grins up at Jensen with teeth._

_"Now what?" he says, flexing his wrists._

_"Now," Jensen says, leaning in until his forearms are resting alongside Jared's on the bed, noses almost touching, "you make this worth losing my soul."_

_Jared sees the desperation on his face, hears the fear in his voice under the heat and silk and lust, and his heart clenches. He ducks his head and takes Jensen's rosary between his lips, sucking the crucifix until it's good and wet and then biting and tugging on the beads to bring Jensen's head down the last crucial inch. He balances the tiny Christ on his tongue, offering it and himself together, without words._

_Jensen's groan is muffled between them as his mouth crashes down._

_Everything after that is slick, hard-edged heat, Jensen's nails biting into his wrists, teeth nipping his lips and neck and dragging the rosary out of his mouth so Jensen can suck on his tongue. Jared lets Jensen use him, bends when he pulls, flows when he pushes, legs parting and hips canting up when Jensen starts to rock above him. They're still half-clothed; Jensen growls into his mouth and pulls away, sliding down the bed. His grip on Jared's wrists pulls him up short, half a foot shy of Jared's belt buckle._

_"Looks like you got a choice to make," Jared says with the best smirk he can come up with. He arches up again, deliberate, letting Jensen's cock graze the inside of his thigh. "What's it gonna be?"_

_One of Jensen's hands loosens, sliding down over his chest. The other urges Jared's hands up higher, until he meets the wrought iron rails of the bed. Jared wraps his fingers around the rails and lifts himself up to kiss Jensen, gasping into it when Jensen flicks his nipple and palms his cock at the same time._

_"No choices. I want it all," Jensen breathes, and Jared falls back to the bed in willing surrender._

_It's almost savage, the way they grind and push together, Jensen using his weight and leverage to keep control, Jared forcing himself not to touch. He can see the need in Jensen's face, feel it building between them when Jensen shoves down his pants and slides his cock between Jared's thighs in a parody of fucking. His hand is rough on Jared's cock, not easy, not sweet, the way Sandy's always is; it's just this side of painful, jerking a response out of him, deep moans and stuttering thrusts and finally, finally, a wet gush as he gives it up into Jensen's hand. Jensen doesn't pause, just keeps on fucking into Jared's hip, a strangled cry escaping him when he joins Jared in post-orgasmic bliss. They pant together, sharing the same air, Jensen's hand planted possessively over Jared's heart._

Jared wakes up gripping cold iron, fingers aching, cock hard. He massages the former and ignores the latter, and doesn't call Sandy before he goes to work.

* * *

The minute Jensen's gone over to the church the next morning, Chris is in the Ford and starting it up, rattling his way over to the gas station. Jared's outside the workshop, on his way back from getting a soda; Chris watches his face light up when he sees the truck, then fall into a thunderous scowl when Chris slides out of the cab. Chris tips his hat back and scratches his forehead as he ambles over.

"Mornin'," he says, flashing a smile. "Hot one today, huh."

"Yeah." Jared's response is tight and clipped. "Help you?"

"I'm thinkin' maybe I can help you. Well, not you specifically, but my boy Jensen." Chris tosses the truck's keys in one hand. "He said you've been workin' on his truck, and it's kind of a losing battle. Thought I'd come offer a hand, seein' as I know it inside and out. It was mine beforehand, see."

"I don't need any help, _thanks_ ," Jared grits out, lip curling. "Been fixing cars all on my own for a while now."

"Oh, I'm sure you have. But this truck is kinda special. I got a soft spot for it even if it ain't mine anymore. You can't blame me for wanting to make sure it's bein' treated right."

He watches Jared's face, seeing the moment he catches on. His face softens a little, but the look he slides Chris's way is still more than a bit suspicious.

"Guess not," he allows finally, and takes a gulp of his soda. "So? What do you ... suggest?"

"A whole lot of TLC, for starters," Chris replies. "I treated it gently as I could in my time, but it's always been high-strung. Kinda like a horse that never got properly broke. Needs a lot of time, a lot of patience, but if you get the right parts in working order it'll purr like a kitten for you." He lets his grin curl sideways, wistful. "I never quite got there myself, but who knows—maybe you'll have the right touch."

Jared blinks a couple times, looking like he got hit with a two-by-four. Chris waits for him to catch up, parse through what he's saying, then raises a brow when Jared flushes and clears his throat.

"I—see," is all Jared says, wiping a hand across his mouth. "I ... thanks for the advice."

He sounds much milder now, less like a mountainside about to crash down on Chris's head, and Chris can see where Jensen would be attracted. Jared's tall and built with a face that's all Slavic gorgeousness, sharp angles and mobile mouth and dimples that flash at the least provocation. It's a powerful package. Chris doesn't even have to wonder about Jared's side of things; he's only just now unclenching his free hand from a fist.

"I hope it's worthwhile," he says. "Things like this don't come along too often, but sometimes it's better to cut your losses and make do with what you've got."

Jared's mouth twists, not a grin, and the look he gives Chris is rueful.

"I think it's too late for that."

Chris nods and settles his hat firmly on his head.

"Well, that's up to you," he says. "I've said my piece. You have a good day, now."

He tosses the keys to Jared and walks away, whistling as he goes.

* * *

He's rethinking his decision to walk back through town before he gets halfway down the hill. But at least it _is_ downhill, so Chris rolls with it. A little sweat never hurt anyone. He entertains himself with thoughts of a cold shower when he gets back, maybe raiding Jensen's fridge to see what's edible. Burgers at the diner are fine, but he could use a little downtime from making nice today.

He's not quite sure how it happens: one minute he's wondering if having a beer with lunch means he's an alcoholic, and the next he's standing in the doorway of the greengrocer's, ice-cold air swirling around and chilling the sweat on his skin. The place is empty but for an old woman paying for a bunch of grapes; she smiles at Chris when he holds the door for her. It slaps shut with a solid thud when she passes through.

"Flip the sign, will you?" Chad says. He hasn't seen Chris yet; there's a display of cantaloupes blocking the view. "I gotta run down to the bank."

"Sure," Chris says, and flicks the sign to 'closed'. He hears a clatter and a muffled curse, and turns around to see Chad stumbling out from behind the counter, bright smile on his face.

"Hey, Chris! Uh, hi." He moves to put his hands in his pockets, and looks embarrassed when he realises he's still wearing his apron, scratching at his head instead. "I, uh. Was hoping I'd see you."

"Yeah?" Chris moves around the melons, pausing to sniff and squeeze a particularly ripe specimen. "Why?"

He can't help but tease. Chad is _ridiculously_ cute, all spiky hair and puppydog eyes that change in an instant, flicking over him with a greedy look before he shrugs and looks at the floor.

"Dunno," he mumbles, glancing up at Chris through his lashes. "Thought you might wanna ... hang out, or something."

_Oh, for God's sake_ , Chris thinks, and throws rationality out the window. If Chad's being subtle he sucks at it, and if he's not—well, nobody said Chris has to mean it every time he fucks. When he moves forward, though, stalking Chad across the store and behind the cover of a shelf of potatoes, he's surprised to realise he _does_ mean it.

"Or something," he drawls with an arched eyebrow and a come-hither grin, and licks Chad's little moan of want right out of his mouth.

It's not the best sex he's ever had. Chad's eager and willing but clumsy with it, gripping too hard and forgetting to cover his teeth when he sucks Chris down at first. Chris gasps out a warning and lets him pull back, contrite, kissing at the red marks on Chris's cock. Then he goes back down, softer this time, and Chris tangles his hand in crisp blond spikes and lets himself go just a little bit. It's been a while, and the rush hits harder than he was expecting, though whether that's from abstinence or the fact that it's Chad he doesn't venture to guess. It's enough that he's _feeling_ it, that Chad is right there with him, no complications or expectations, just pure, sweet pleasure. Chris closes his eyes when he comes, Chad lapping it up with happy noises, and pulls him up for a kiss when he's done. It's no hardship to return the favour afterward, Chad's cock hard and pretty in his hands, precome sharp and tangy in his mouth like he hasn't had in months. Chris takes his time, enjoying it more with every aborted move Chad makes, every stifled groan out of his mouth, and counts himself a winner when Chad finally breaks free with a moan and comes in salty pulses down his throat.

Chris stands up and brushes the sawdust off his knees, tucking Chad's cock away with a little pat. Chad's scratching at his head again, blushing a bit, but there's a grin on his face that says he knows he done good, and Chris grins back and kisses him again before he steps away with a sigh.

"Weren't you going to the bank?" he asks.

"Whatever. I'll go later." Chad clears his throat and meets his gaze a bit easier now. "That was ... thanks, man. I—wow."

"Yeah." Chris can't stop grinning around this guy. "It kinda was."

"So I'll see you around, huh," Chad says. It's a repeat of their first meeting, but this time Chad's not asking.

"Yeah," Chris says this time, and tips him a wink when he leaves.

* * *

"Where's my truck?" Jensen says when he gets back from church. Chris tosses his hat on the coffee table and grins.

"In the shop."

"In _Jared's_ shop?"

"Yep." Chris heads for the kitchen. "You want a beer?"

"I want an explanation."

Jensen follows him and leans in the doorway, arms folded and scowling. Chris pops the caps on two beers and drops a slice of lime in each, shoving one into Jensen's hand.

"Don't worry, I behaved myself," Chris says. "Didn't so much as ask his intentions. I just gave him a few pointers about the truck, that's all."

"That's all?" Jensen swigs from the bottle. "Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you have an overly suspicious nature."

"Justified, when it comes to you."

Chris tries to look wounded. Jensen snorts and pushes upright, heading for the living room and the couch. They don't say any more about it until Chris stretches a few hours later and pronounces himself ready for bed.

"Hey." He waits for Jensen to look up. "I like your boy, Jensen."

"He's not mine," Jensen says.

"He could be. If you want it bad enough."

Jensen looks away, a twist to his lips, and doesn't answer. Chris figures that's fair enough; he faced the same decision once, and it's one Jensen will have to make on his own. He leaves him to it and goes to bed, thinking of old wants and new ones, a face with blond hair and blue eyes following him into sleep.

* * *

Chris leaves two days later, without warning or fanfare. Jensen gets up and finds him filling a thermos with coffee in the kitchen, duffel packed and sitting by the door.

"Leaving so soon?"

He gets a half-grin and a wink as Chris turns around, screwing the cap on the thermos.

"Thought I'd make tracks before I outstayed my welcome."

Jensen raises an eyebrow and pours himself a coffee. He's a little thrown, but he knew Chris had to leave sometime. He'd just hoped to have figured out what to do by now. Everything's still all fucked up in his head, and he has no idea which way to jump. He's been getting by while Chris is here, his presence distracting him from thoughts of Jared at least some of the time. With Chris gone, he's pretty sure his respite is over.

"Where you headed now?"

"Back to OK for a while, I guess." Chris shrugs. "Got a few gigs lined up there. Should keep me out of trouble for a while."

"You let me know if you need anything." Jensen points at him when Chris opens his mouth to argue. "No, Chris. Don't even start, 'cause I don't wanna hear it. You need any help, you call me, okay?"

"You're bitchy first thing in the morning," Chris mutters, but he doesn't disagree and that's good enough for Jensen.

He walks Chris out to his truck, a thought striking him on the way.

"What about Chad?" he asks.

"What about him?" Chris parrots back.

"Don't bullshit me, man. Think I haven't noticed you sneaking off to buy fruit salad and coming back empty handed two hours later?" Jensen grins in genuine delight at the sour look Chris gives him. "Man, I _knew_ it. What's going on?"

Chris mumbles something under his breath as he throws his duffel in the back of the truck. Jensen tilts his head to the side and leans in.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that."

"We're gonna _email_ ," Chris spits out, red around the ears. "Okay? Happy now?"

"For you, yeah," Jensen says simply. "Good for you, big brother."

Chris smiles at him then, and pulls him into a tight hug. Jensen hangs on just as tight, face tucked into Chris's neck, and wishes for a moment that he still wanted this.

"Be good," he says, pulling away. "Or if you can't be good, be careful."

"Good luck," Chris replies. He chews on his lip for a second, uncharacteristically hesitant, and then adds, "I don't wanna make your choices for you, Jen. But I gotta say ... whichever way you go, the sacrifice should be worth it."

"I know."

Jensen swallows down the lump in his throat and steps back as Chris gets behind the wheel. Chris gives him a final look full of warmth and support and love, and then he's gone in a swirl of gravel and dust, horn beeping distantly as he turns onto the main road. Jensen stands and watches until the truck is gone from view.

* * *

_It's almost unbearably hot, the sun beating down on dry earth and fragile skin, leeching moisture out of the air. Jensen silently bemoans his mostly-black wardrobe for the dozenth time this summer; the heat seems to seek him out wherever he goes, weighing him down and demanding surrender. He counteracts with the thinnest of t-shirts and shorts when he's done with Tuesday Mass, a long cold shower and about a gallon of sweet tea, though all he really wants is a beer. He_ can _drink if he wants to; the Vatican isn't going to take away his collar if he kicks back a little too hard now and then. It's a control thing. If he gets drunk, he doesn't know what he might do. So he settles down on his tiny front porch and drinks his tea, trying to chase the dust from his throat._

_He isn't surprised when Jared appears out of nowhere, leaning back against the hood of Jensen's truck. Jared's just as hot and sweaty as Jensen felt a while ago: his grey coveralls are pushed down to his hips, jeans and his ridiculous Texas belt buckle visible beneath. A dirt-smudged white wifebeater clings to his chest. When he wipes the back of his hand over his face, it comes away glistening wet._

_Jensen looks him over from head to foot, taking his time about it. Jared looks like he'd sizzle if Jensen touched him, like they'd both go up in flames if they kissed. The bite of the sun fades a little in comparison to the look Jared's giving him back, the one that means if Jensen gets within arm's reach he's going to be sorry. Jensen doubts this. He can't envisage a single scenario where he wouldn't want Jared touching him._

_That decided, it's an easy thing to stand, walk the two steps down and across to where Jared is lounging in wait, and offer him a cool glass of sweet, tangy tea. And anything else he might want, while he's at it._

_"You make this yourself?" Jared asks as he reaches out for the glass. Their fingers collide in the handover, skin-touch raising goosebumps where the chill of ice did not._

_"Yeah." Jensen grins sharp against the quivering in his gut. "If by 'make' you mean 'uncapped the bottle'." He strikes a Donna Reed pose and tilts his head coquettishly downward, fluttering his eyelashes. "And I did it all for you."_

_Jared's laugh rumbles out low and dark like a secret between them. Jensen's grin widens. He looks up just as Jared reaches out again; a hand around Jensen's wrist and a single yank is all it takes to bring Jensen into close quarters with all of Jared's pretty, pretty skin._

_"I think you can do more than that for me," Jared says, bending down to bite gently at his throat. "Don't you?"_

_He was right. Jared does sizzle when they touch; Jensen's surprised there isn't steam rising off them already. He angles his head to give Jared better access, pressing in close to rub his hardening cock against Jared's hip._

_"Keep that up," he sighs, "and I'll do any damn thing you want me to."_

_He feels Jared smile against his skin, then—sudden tilt and spin, and the equally sudden cessation as Jared slams him up against the hood of the truck. Jensen inhales sharply, lust and irritation flaring up together, lust winning out when Jared's hands snake up under his t-shirt from behind and he crowds up against Jensen's back, hips heavy and mouth putting a little more effort into those bites around his neck. Jensen's shirt rides up; Jared presses in further, and Jensen hisses as the baking metal of Jared's belt buckle makes contact with the small of his back. It feels like a brand touching his skin, burning deep._

_"What?" Jared pulls back a little and looks down, cursing softly. Jensen guesses it doesn't just_ feel _like a brand, then._

_He doesn't really mind._

_Jared traces a careful finger around the edge of the scald, raising a shudder across Jensen's back. Jared's other hand reaches around to grab the glass of tea; a moment later there's cool relief sluicing over the area, and Jared's lips pressing an apology just above._

_"Sorry," Jared murmurs into his ear, tugging Jensen's shirt down between their bodies. "I was workin' with the oxy torch, forgot how hot it gets."_

_Jensen twists around to face him, hoisting himself up to sit on the car. "Take it off," he whispers back, and leans in to kiss._

_Everything, everywhere around is heat. Jared's hands on his skin, melting him down to nothing and building him back up again. The warm wet thrust of tongues, sliding and trading control as Jensen parts his thighs to bring Jared in, working buckle and zipper free with the protection of Jared's coveralls over his hands. The heavy material falls free, pooling at Jared's feet; Jensen helps it on its way, palming Jared's ass with both hands. They grind together, still kissing, Jensen's ankles locked behind Jared's back, Jared gripping his shoulders to keep the angle right. Their mouths are slick with sweat and bitter with salt and Jensen has never felt anything like it, ever. Nothing else in his life has ever prepared him for this._

_He arches into Jared's slow thrusts, trying to get closer, hands wound in Jared's hair. The rise of want, building slow until now, suddenly catches fire between them, sparks jumping from nerve to nerve with an urgency Jensen doesn't understand but can't ignore, doesn't want to. He makes a quiet noise into their newest kiss, a warning; Jared breaks away and pants into his neck, one hand coming down to stroke Jensen's cock through his shorts, red-hot. Jensen bites down hard on his bottom lip, clenches his fists—_

The shrill yapping of the Gambles' dog throws Jensen out of sleep, heart racing, breath stuttering through his open mouth. He's _blindingly_ hard, aching with it, and it doesn't help that the cottage is stifling. He throws aside the tangled, sweat-damp sheets and crawls out of bed to open another window. The dog yaps for another few seconds, then falls silent.

The red blinking light of his answering machine mocks him, Jared's voice in a dozen messages locked inside.

It's the dead of night, absolutely still, humidity lying thick in the air. Jensen scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, muttering a prayer for central air-con as he heads for the bathroom and yet another frigid shower. He resolutely does not think; equally resolutely he does not look down. In the shower, his hands stay planted against the sides of the stall as if he were crucified there, teeth gritted against the momentary shock of cold water against heated skin.

It doesn't help for long, but if he wants to meet his own eyes in the mirror tomorrow, it's all he'll allow himself to have.

* * *

The weather continues hot, alternately scorching dry and muggy. The grass fades from green to brown, crunching underfoot, and Jensen develops a semi-permanent squint from forgetting his sunglasses whenever he goes outside. He takes care not to go into town when he knows Jared isn't working; far too much chance of running into him there, and he doesn't trust himself to do the right thing—the _sensible_ thing—so it's best all round if he just avoids temptation.

Jared keeps calling him, though, and every time it's a battle for Jensen to not pick up the phone. It gets so that he jumps every time he feels the vibration of his cell in his pocket. His voicemail is full of Jared's messages, that he won't listen to but can't bear to delete. It's absurd and ridiculous and it hurts, so much that just hearing Jared's name in passing will make Jensen want to hit something.

He's not the first man who wants something he can never have. He won't be the last. Knowing that does nothing to stop the pain.

Jared turns up to early Mass on Sunday again, eyes fixed on Jensen like he's targeting him. Jensen fumbles his way through half the service, faltering more than once through the Act of Penitence and nearly dropping the bread during Transubstantiation. Holy Communion is an exercise in torment, remembering what happened on this very spot two weeks ago, imagining what must be going through Jared's mind right at this moment. Jensen badly wants to glance over and see, confirm what the burning colour on his face and the shaking of his hands tells him—that Jared is still watching him with a tight, furious gaze, demanding a response Jensen's too afraid to give.

He reads over the list of announcements, and stumbles badly when he reaches the final item. He glances at Jared despite himself as his voice dies suddenly in the middle of a sentence.

"... marriage of Sandra McCoy of the parish of St Joseph, and Jared Padalecki," his voice breaks again on Jared's name, "also of this parish. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is for the second time of asking."

Bob must have first called the banns last week. He would've wanted to have that honour.

Jensen wants to object to his own announcement, declare an objection to the marriage. He wants to meet Jared's gaze. He wants to hide away in a dark room somewhere and never speak again.

He spends an hour in the confessional after Mass, listening to friends and neighbours repenting everyday, ordinary sins. He tries to focus on the task of prescribing penance and giving absolution, praying it will divert his thoughts from the accusing expression on Jared's face.

It works for a time. The troubles of his parishioners are blessedly simple in comparison to Jensen's own, and it helps to give others the succour he cannot ask for himself. When he hears Mrs Tucker leave, her soul eased by a few Pater Nosters, he feels more at peace than he has all day.

There's silence outside; looking at his watch, Jensen realises only a few minutes remain until confession is over. He wonders idly if it would be gluttonous of him to grill a steak for lunch. He hasn't felt much like eating lately, but right now he's starving.

Then the other side of the confessional slides open, and Jensen knows without looking that it's Jared. He can smell the familiar sun-warm scent of him, hear the little hitch in his breathing that he's been dreaming of for days. Just that quickly Jensen's calm is shattered, leaving him gripping the bench under him for support, so he doesn't reach out.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." Jared's voice is a husky rasp. "It's been two weeks since my last confession."

"You shouldn't be here," Jensen manages through dry lips. "Not like this."

"I want to confess my sins."

"You shouldn't confess them to me."

"Why?" Jared shifts; in the darkness of the booth Jensen catches a glimpse of his profile. "You're the cause of most of them."

Jensen's heart starts to pound dull and heavy in his chest. He grips the bench harder and holds his breath until he feels dizzy.

"This is wrong," he says at last. "You're not truly penitent, Jared. I can't do this. I can't give you absolution if you don't repent."

"So leave," Jared challenges, sounding raw and cracked. "Confession is over. Go back into hiding, if that's what you want."

Jensen means to. He takes another breath and opens his mouth, tells his legs to move, stand, get him out of here. His body rebels, refusing to obey. Disjointed images from his dreams bombard him, screaming for acknowledgement with Jared _right there_ , wanting not the Church's absolution but Jensen's own. He's being ripped in two, a lifetime of teachings and devotion and faith urging him to resist, repulse, refuse; on the other hand, there's Jared, daring him to speak the truth. Jensen's heart bangs hard against his ribs; his fingers ache from clinging to cold hard wood. There's warm skin only inches away that could be his for the taking.

"What are your sins?" he whispers, so quiet he can barely hear.

It's loud enough for Jared, apparently. Jensen shudders when Jared's hand presses against the woven cane screen between them, fingertips digging in.

"I've lied." The words drift through the darkness, almost a growl. "I've borne false witness to my family, to my fiancée, to myself. I've been saying everything's fine, over and over, but I can't stop thinking about you."

Jensen rocks back in his seat, mouth open in a silent moan. His cock is hard. He feels sick; wrong; gloriously triumphant.

"I've had impure thoughts. Lustful, even." Jared shifts again, moving closer. "About you. Day and night, _Father_ , until I can't hardly walk down your street without gettin' hard. Like I am right now."

Too late, Jensen hears the soft slide and snick of a zipper, and the rustle and snap of elastic. Then there's a wet sound and a muffled hiss, as if Jared is biting down on a moan.

"Jared, _no_ ," Jensen whispers, but he's pretty sure Jared doesn't hear this time.

"Thought about _this_ ," Jared pants, and Jensen can see his face close up against the screen. "I see you, Jensen, sittin' there all stiff and hard. I _know_." The shadows change: Jared licks his palm up where Jensen can see, the same wet sound as before. "I know you wanna do this."

Jensen closes his eyes. One hand slides into his lap, pressing hard against his cock, which jumps eagerly in response. Jared makes a noise, and the thought of being watched kicks up the tension in Jensen's gut. He's wavering on a knife edge, wanting so badly but knowing, _knowing_ it's all wrong. There's nothing but white noise and Jared in his head.

_The conditions for mortal sin are these_ , says Father Jeffrey in his memory. _You must be aware of it as a mortal sin; you must consent to it in full knowledge of that fact. These are also the conditions for grace. Never forget that._

Jensen has never forgotten. He remembers every night, with every stroke of the lash.

"Are these ... all your sins?" he asks, voice shaking, hands clenched hard.

"Envy," Jared gasps out over the wet slapping of flesh on flesh. "Of whoever else gets your time. Avarice, because I want you. Anger, because you're fighting this. All for you. All your fault. I have no ... no remorse, Jensen. No desire to repent. _None_."

Jensen slides quietly to the floor, his breathing harsh and shallow. He can feel Jared gasping against his face, can almost feel his body heat. He angles his mouth against the screen so they're sharing the same air, all but kissing through it. Slowly, he drags one finger down his crotch, parting the teeth on his zipper. His cock pushes free, wet and ready; Jensen wraps his fingers tight and hard and starts a near-punishing rhythm. He looks at Jared through the screen; eyes locked in the dimness, and hears his indrawn breath.

"Jensen ... _yes_. Come on, do it. I want to see." Low and dirty, suddenly; Jared's tongue comes out, _licks_ the screen right where Jensen's mouth is. "Hard and fast, like me. Wanna see you come like this. Wanna get my hands on you again, get yours on me—wanna get your fingers right up inside me, those pretty hands makin' me ready for you." Jared leans in closer, his voice dropping to a barely-there growl. "I been thinkin' about it, in bed at night when I'm all alone. Been practicing, imagining it's your touch. It's good, Jensen, it's so good, but it'd be better if it was you."

Jared's voice filters in soft, every obscenity rubbing up Jensen's spine like an all-over shock wave. He brings his other hand up to his mouth and bites down hard.

"You _do_ want it. Want to fuck me, Jensen? Want to spread me out right here?"

Jensen bites down harder, grinding his teeth, tries to concentrate on the pain. It's the only thing stopping him from saying yes.

"Come in here with me," Jared breathes. "I need your hands on me, _in_ me, Jensen, c'mon, I don't wanna touch myself when you're right here to do it for me," and Jensen _wants_ to, oh dear God, he wants to. Weeks of dreaming about it, of hearing Jared beg for his cock, of pushing him down and fucking into him until Jared cries for mercy, cries for more. He's tried to stamp it out, wash away his sins with icy-cold water, tried to drive the want from his body with pain, but it's all so temporary.

Resisting this, resisting _Jared_ is exhausting. It'd be so easy to give in. There's nothing between them but flimsy mesh and an inch of pine, nobody waiting outside to see if he were to just ... just slip out of his side of the booth and into Jared's, bat his hands away, get his fingers inside, take him like he wants to. Like he _needs_ to. Nobody would know.

But he'd know. God would know. And he can't do it. He _can't_.

"Jensen, please ..." Jared's voice rises on a whine, but Jensen shakes his head wildly and closes his eyes.

He bites down on another moan and strokes faster, the sick lust rising up to overtake his thoughts. He takes his hand out of his mouth and puts it on the screen, feels Jared pressing back, and the near-contact flips a switch inside. His head drops back, eyes closing, gasping in shallow pants. He can still hear Jared's movements on the other side, stroking almost in sync, small grunts and groans escaping him. It's close and furtive and filthy and _wrong_ , and Jensen has never wanted anything so badly in his entire life.

When he comes, it's sweet release and damnation all at once, spilling into his hand with Jared's name on his lips, a deep well of aching need opening up inside. Jensen slumps to the floor and licks the taste of failure from his fingers, and shudders when he hears Jared doing the same. It's quiet again, or maybe it always was. Jensen waits for his heart to slow down, for Jared to speak, for God to strike him down where he sits.

"What are we going to do?" Jared asks finally, sounding very young. Jensen's heart stutters at his words. _We_.

He opens his mouth to reply, with no idea what he's going to say.

"Jared? Are you in here?"

Sandy's voice echoes off the stone walls of the nave. Jensen starts, falling back against the door of the booth, panic welling up to choke him.

"Coming!" Jared calls out. Jensen swallows a hysterical laugh, scooting back until he's tucked into a corner, arms clamped around his upraised knees. His pants are still undone.

"Jensen," Jared whispers above him. "Say something."

He shakes his head. He has no words. Whatever he was going to say, it's gone, stolen by Sandy's presence. _The conditions of sin_ , he thinks, and puts his head down.

Jared sighs. "I have to go. I'll call you. We have to talk about this."

The door slides open, and Jared's footsteps ring out on the flagstone floor. Jensen shuts his eyes against the sound and feels his mind begin to quietly shatter.


	4. Chapter 4

Jensen's not a heavy drinker. He sticks mostly to beer and the necessary ingestion of sacramental wine, preferring to keep his head clear. It's simpler that way, easier. No complications.

The evening after Jared's _confession_ , Jensen breaks out the fifth of Jack that Chris gave him for Christmas and all but collapses onto the couch. He doesn't bother with a glass. There's no point in pretending there's anything civilised about this. He swigs straight from the bottle, grimacing as the first sweet burn hits his chest and slides into his stomach, spreading false warmth. Jensen rips his cleric's collar away from his throat and tosses it on the coffee table, fumbling at the buttons on his shirt. It doesn't help any; he still feels like he's choking, desperate for air. He drinks more instead. Maybe he can drown his sorrows instead of strangling on them.

He slumps low on the couch, toeing his shoes off, resting the bottle on one knee between swallows. The alcohol hits him fast, making him dizzy; breakfast was a long time ago, lunch a non-event. Before long the room is spinning and he's having trouble thinking straight, lines blurring between reality and not, memory and imagination. Jared's face slides in and out of his mind's eye, whispering, pleading, demanding, angry and curious and laughing, and Jensen _wants_. He wants Jared here, under his hands, at his mercy. He wants to worship Jared, defile him, absolve his sins and commit some more: lather, rinse, repeat.

He wants Jared spread out on this couch, naked and willing, begging Jensen to fuck him. He wants to fall to his knees and suck on Jared's cock until he's gagging on it. He wants Jared to come to him straight from work, filthy and stained with grease, soiling them irrevocably.

_The conditions of sin_ , he hears again, and the Jack swirls uneasily in his stomach. _Deus meus, ex toto corde poenitet, me omnium meorum peccatorum_ ... but he isn't, and he doesn't. Not at all. Not even if it means he'll burn for it. The knowledge of what he's willing to do to get his hands on Jared makes him cringe in shame, but it doesn't stop the wanting, and it doesn't kill the need.

Jared is not his to take. Jensen is not free to ask. Jared belongs to Sandy, heart and body and soul; Jensen belongs to God. They've both made promises, taken vows, shouldered obligations they cannot shift. Jensen's whole life is centered around the church, and today he sullied that devotion the moment his knees hit the floor in the confessional. He is impure; worse, he's unrepentant and cannot be absolved, even more so than Jared because he _knows_ the damage he's done. What a travesty he is. Dimly, through the haze of liquor and desire and crippling self-loathing, Jensen wonders what Christ would say, were they face to face right now.

When he stands, he nearly topples straight to the floor because his legs don't quite work. The bottle of whiskey is two-thirds gone; an hour has passed, maybe more. It's still light outside. Jensen hears the distant sounds of a lawn mower, children laughing, the faint hum of traffic passing through town. Small-town normality; it slides off him like water as he stumbles into the bathroom. His reflection stares back at him: vacant, unworthy, dumb clay that knows nothing better than eating and sleeping and rutting. He thought he was above it all, closer to something higher, somehow more pure. He thought he was doing some good in the world.

It might be better, Jensen thinks in momentary clarity, if he were to take himself _out_ of it.

His hands don't shake when he unfolds the blade. It's sharp; he needs it to be, thick Irish stubble demanding the closest shave he can get. For a moment Jensen meets his own gaze in the mirror, looking for a sign, but there's nothing.

It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts. He can't feel anything at all.

* * *

Bob's not normally the worrying kind. He said when Jensen first started that he wasn't gonna run his life, and he meant it. But it's been hours since he last saw him, and Jensen never misses evening prayers. Bob checks his watch again—edging on seven-thirty, long past time—and grumbles under his breath as he strides out of the church and through the courtyard, slowing when he reaches Jensen's cottage. The lights are out, curtains drawn. Jensen doesn't answer when he knocks.

Bob thinks about calling Kim again, or maybe Jamie at the diner, but he doesn't want to look like a fool if Jensen's just gone off somewhere for some downtime. He's looking a bit peaked lately, especially since his friend Chris's visit; maybe he's homesick. Bob sighs and runs a hand through his greying hair. Hell, maybe the kid's got a _migraine_ or something. They can come on pretty sudden, right?

On the other hand, maybe something really is wrong. Bob weighs his options for a moment, then tries the lock on Jensen's front door.

It opens easily; Bob's inside before he knows it, looking around the room. Jensen's a tidy resident, keeps things in their places. At first glance everything looks fine. Then Bob sees the bottle of liquor in a sticky pool of overflow, the couch cushions askew and Jensen's collar abandoned on the coffee table, soaking in the mess. A second later the smell hits him, familiar and terrible, the sharp burn of alcohol mixed with sweet copper. He's already sending a prayer heavenward as he races for the bathroom.

Jensen's laid out on the floor like a crucifix, body straight as an arrow and arms flung wide, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Pale skin glows under the fluorescent light, stark against the black of his clothing and the rich bright red of his blood. Bob takes in the peaceful look on his face, the blade in his hand, and fights the urge to retch.

He can't tell how much time has passed, but Jensen's blood is still pumping. Bob doesn't think about it; he switches off everything except the need to stop the flow, save the soul in front of him. Long-disused medical training snaps to the foreground of his mind, cool dispassionate voice directing him to press _here_ and _there_ , knee on one wrist while he straps towels to the other. Jensen moans and shifts as he works, and Bob sends up another prayer that he's gotten here in time. He knows he should call an ambulance, get Jensen to a hospital, but even as he moves to find the phone he sees colour come back into Jensen's face, and he hesitates. There's no way to disguise what Jensen's done. The archdiocese will be informed, and Jensen will be defrocked or excommunicated or both. Bob has no idea what's going on, how Jensen came to do this, but he isn't willing to call attention to it without trying to talk to the kid first.

It takes a while to clean Jensen up and move him to his bed. By the time Bob's done Jensen's curled in on himself, bandaged wrists held in front of his body and his legs drawn up close. Bob sighs and drags a chair in from the kitchen, settles in to keep watch.

* * *

Jensen sleeps for twelve hours straight, waking only briefly to croak a request for water and then falling back into unconsciousness. Bob eyes the level of whisky left in the bottle of Jack and worries about dehydration and exsanguination, but Jensen's colour is still good and his vital signs are steady. Bob thanks God a thousand times over that he hadn't waited any longer the night before; in the end Jensen lost only a few pints of blood, enough to lay him out for a while but not seriously life-threatening. The state of his soul is another question entirely, but Bob's willing to let that go until he knows what's going on.

It's another eight hours before Jensen wakes up properly. He blinks and focuses on Bob's face, expression confused and wondering until he moves his arms and reality comes flooding in. Bob stitched the wounds while he was still unconscious, and his forearms are covered in thick white gauze halfway to his elbows. Jensen takes in the sight in silence, then looks at Bob again.

"How'd you know?" he whispers through dry lips.

Bob passes him a glass of water with a straw before he speaks.

"I didn't. I came looking for you when you missed Compline, found you passed out in the bathroom."

"Why'd you ..." Jensen gestures down at himself. "Why bother?"

Bob feels anger then, flaring up sharp and hard behind the relief, and he welcomes it.

"Because you don't get to pull this shit on my watch," he growls, and has the satisfaction of seeing Jensen shrink away. "If you've got problems, kid, I expect you to bring them to me. What the hell else am I here for?"

"I didn't—" Jensen starts, but Bob cuts him off with a look.

"I don't care," he says. "Whatever it is, we'll get to it. Right now I want you to stay in that bed and rest until I tell you to get up. _Then_ we can talk about it, and if you need chastisement _I'll_ be the one to deliver it. You don't disrespect God this way, _Father_. You get me?"

"Yessir," Jensen agrees in a small voice, and for once Bob doesn't correct him.

* * *

Jensen does as he's told for four days: he sleeps, eats and drinks when Bob tells him to, staggers to the bathroom and back and doesn't make a peep. Bob spreads the word around town that Jensen's laid up with a stomach virus, and accepts the influx of get-well-soon casseroles and baked goods with an ironic smile. He shoves it all in Jensen's freezer and forgets about it, concentrating on getting the kid back up to speed so he can knock him on his ass.

On the fifth day, Jensen moves from the bed to the armchair Bob installed by the window. He doesn't get back in bed when Bob orders it, just sits and plucks listlessly at the blanket over his knees, staring out at cobalt-blue sky and watching the jacaranda blossoms fall. Bob gives up after a while and leaves him there, figuring he's better off looking at something other than the ceiling.

The next day Jensen seems a little better, more alert, though he's still not talking, not reacting when Bob tries to talk to him about what's going on inside his head. He seems to zone out when Bob persists, falling into a fugue that lasts for hours at a time, and that scares Bob more than he's willing to admit. Something has to snap Jensen out of this, or he's going to try again, and Bob's not sure he can prevent it a second time.

* * *

Jared doesn't believe Bob's excuse for a minute. Jensen's never sick; he's told Jared as much himself, marvelling at the fact that he has his hands in or near people's mouths twice a week and never gets so much as a cold. Jared calls Jensen's cell and home line repeatedly until he starts to feel like a complete stalker, and gets steadily more infuriated when Jensen doesn't respond. Sandy looks at him oddly at dinner on Wednesday night, and Jared realises he's barely said a word all evening. He helps her do the dishes afterward and goes home early, leaving her with an apology and a kiss on the cheek.

By Friday he's wondering if maybe something actually is wrong. Nobody's seen Jensen all week, and when he comes to collect the truck all Bob will say is that he's not up to visitors. Jared decides he's had enough. He closes the garage early and drives home, then makes his way to the church on foot. Confession is held between two and four on Fridays, and it's just gone three; if Bob's been screening Jensen's visitors, he won't be around to do it now.

Jared doesn't knock on Jensen's door. He tries the handle, ready to cause a ruckus if it's locked. It's open, though, and he walks straight in.

The cottage is quiet, but it doesn't feel empty. The living room is scrupulously tidy as usual, but there's an empty space where the armchair used to be and plates piled up next to the sink, coffee brewing on the counter. Jared hears a noise from the bedroom, something bumping against a wall. He's moving into the hallway before he can think twice, pulling up short at the doorway to Jensen's bedroom.

"Jensen," he says, numb with shock.

Jensen is sitting in the missing armchair by the window with a blanket over his legs. He's pale and unshaven, eyes sunk deep in his head like he hasn't slept for days. He looks vulnerable without his priestly black, a grey t-shirt leaving his neck and forearms bare. His forearms. His _wrists_.

Pristine white bandages, wound tightly around muscled flesh. The sight is enough to propel Jared forward, sinking to his knees.

Jensen doesn't acknowledge his presence at all, eyes trained on the view outside the window, hands lying like dead things in his lap. Jared takes an unsteady breath and touches one of the bandages with a fingertip, anger forgotten and a terrible shame welling up in its place.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "Jensen—I didn't _know_ , I didn't realise, I ..." He stops, swallows, tries again. "I should have listened to you. But I just—I wanted to know I wasn't going crazy alone, and I feel _so much_ when I'm around you. I just couldn't ... not. But you were right, and I should have—you were right, and I am _sorry_."

Jensen breathes slow and regular. He's still staring out the window. Jared strokes thick gauze, imagining the horror beneath, and doesn't even try to stop the tears.

"Say something. Tell me how you came to this, Jensen. Hit me, spit on me, tell me you hate me. _Anything_. Show me you're still alive in there. 'Cause you don't—you don't look so good, and ..."

He can't go on, after that. The evidence of just how close he came to losing Jensen for good is right under his fingers, and he _didn't even know_. He's brushed aside every objection Jensen has raised since they met, wanting to know more, get closer, dig himself deep into Jensen's life and vice versa without regard for anything else. He's _seen_ Jensen struggle with it, but it hasn't really sunk in before just how much torment he's gone through. It's pretty fucking clear right now, though. Jared looks at what he's done and feels sick to his stomach.

"I'll go," he chokes out. "I'll leave you alone, Jensen, if that's what you need. Whatever you need, just tell me, and I'll do it."

He takes a risk, lifts Jensen's wrist and presses a kiss to the bandage, right there on the inside. It feels like handling a rag doll, dead weight in his grip. Jared stifles a shudder and lays Jensen's arm gently back in his lap. Jensen still hasn't moved.

Jared gets to his feet and weaves to the door. His vision is blurry, chest tight; he scrubs a hand over his face to clear his eyes. He grips the door frame for balance and turns back.

"If we'd met five years ago—before I committed to Sandy, before you took your vows," he asks softly, "do you think anything would have been different?"

He lets the question hang there in the silence, waiting for an answer that will never come. Then Jensen moves, finally, rising to his feet and shuffling across the room like a man three times his age. He sinks down onto the bed and huddles among the pillows, his back to where Jared stands at the door.

"Okay," Jared whispers. "Okay."

He closes the door quietly when he leaves.

* * *

Bob's still keeping the church running, bringing paperwork into Jensen's room at first and then going over to the office or the church when Jensen shows his compliance. It's a sign of how much he's come to depend on the kid when Bob finds himself inundated with work that he used to handle alone, and he renews his determination to get Jensen on his feet again. Jensen's a good priest, damn it, and whatever he's done he doesn't deserve to suffer like this.

That determination suffers a severe blow when Bob returns to Jensen's room after confession on the sixth day and finds Jensen curled up in his bed, crying as if his heart's been torn out. Deep, heartrending sobs, Jensen's face hidden in the pillows, hoarse sounds of pain and loss emerging from the nest he's made for himself. Bob flinches back from the sound of it, but he's never been able to ignore a soul in need. He sits on the edge of the bed and touches Jensen's back lightly.

"Need a shoulder, son?" he asks, gentle, and Jensen twists around to fling one arm over his legs, hiding his tears in the warmth of Bob's side. Bob curves one hand around his head and just sits there, feeling helpless until Jensen cries himself to sleep.

When Jensen wakes, he still won't talk about it, but he seems more settled now. He leaves the room for the first time of his own volition, making coffee and taking it outside to sit on the porch. Bob takes it as a sign that he's coming back to life, and decides not to push.

"Thank you," Jensen says to him the next day, low and quiet. "For—" He makes a gesture, then smiles, a bare quirk of lips. "Everything, I guess."

"You're welcome," Bob replies. "You know I'm here if you want to talk. Any time, Jensen. I'm not just the town's priest, I'm yours too."

"I know." Jensen nods, but doesn't add anything, and Bob lets him be.

Jensen goes back to work on Saturday, the day of Jared and Sandy's wedding rehearsal. Bob offers to do it for him, but Jensen insists.

"I'll do it. Time I got over—myself. It'll be fine."

It isn't fine, but Bob doesn't find that out until later.

* * *

Jensen unwinds the bandages to let them get some air and help the healing process along. The slashes in his wrists are itchy and tight, stark black thread twisting up his forearms. Bob has a neat touch with a needle; it looks like they'll barely even scar. Jensen wishes it was that easy to heal everything.

He dials Chris's number before he can chicken out. This isn't running to his big brother for help. This is facing up to what he's done, and asking for forgiveness. He has no idea what Chris will say, if he'll listen or hang up in Jensen's ear after he hears it all, but he's the only one Jensen can turn to right now.

"Redneck Centrefolds R Us. How may I direct your call?" is how Chris answers the phone. Jensen stifles a noise, not sure if it's a laugh or a sob.

"Hey," he says. "I, uh. Need to talk."

"Shoot, little brother. I'm listening."

Chris's voice changes in an instant from lazy-amused to completely open, inviting confidence, and Jensen wonders just how often Chris still reaches for his collar. He takes a deep breath and grips the phone tight. He hasn't done this in a long time, and never with Chris.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been thirteen weeks since my last confession."

"Whoa." Jensen can almost hear the wheels turning in Chris's head. "Dude, what the _fuck_?"

"Chris. Please." His voice cracks. He's already fighting back tears. "I have to, and I can't—I can't face Bob with this. He's done too much already. Please. Just—listen."

"Jensen, man ..." There's a muffled sound, and then the _thudclick_ of a door closing. "Okay."

"I." He swallows, forces himself to speak. "I fucked up, Chris. I broke my vows, I broke the Sixth, and ... and the Fifth. Or tried to. Bob found me and patched me up, he's keeping it quiet somehow. He doesn't know about Jared, about anything, I haven't said ... and then Jared came yesterday and I _couldn't_ , he was on his fucking _knees_ and I didn't say a word. And I don't know, Chris, I just don't fucking know. I feel like I'm going a little crazy, here." He tries to laugh, one hand gripping the rosary around his neck, twisting. "Long time coming, huh. Sorry. I ... sorry."

"God damn you, Jensen." Chris's voice is low and clear and he sounds _pissed_. "What the hell's going on in your head? You said you were dealing with it. And if you weren't, why didn't you call me _before_ you tried to check out?"

"I don't know!" Jensen yells, and flinches back from himself. "I don't fucking know, okay? I'm so turned around I can't think straight, and I didn't wanna lay this on you. It's my problem, man, I shouldn't be runnin' to you all the time—"

"Oh, you did not just say that," Chris interrupts. "Jensen, I _love_ you. You're my brother. You're supposed to come to me for help, that's how it works. You gotta stop living inside your own head all the time, man."

"But it's so roomy," Jensen quips, wincing when Chris sighs.

"Come on, Jen. Don't joke about this. Come clean with me, here. What do you want to do?"

He holds the rosary tighter, its edges digging into his palm. The Church is all he knows, but. Jared—Jared is _everything_ , now.

"He said something," Jensen says quietly, "before he left. He asked if things would be different if we'd met before my ordination."

"Would they?"

"I think ... maybe." He flushes hot, then ice cold, heavy with the weight of it. "Yeah. But that doesn't matter, does it? What-ifs don't count."

"The thing about what-ifs," Chris says, "is they usually turn into might-have-beens. And those are no fun at all, bro."

"I'm not here for fun. I'm supposed to be serving God."

"And sacrifice is a part of that, yeah, I get it. But spending your life in devotion is one thing; trying to _end_ it because you're stuck between two kinds of devotion is another. You've been in the Church your whole life, Jensen, and you've never doubted once. Even when—look, you and me, we don't have to go there, but—you never wavered back then. It means something that you're doing it now."

Chris's voice is gentle now. "I'm not gonna tell you what to do, man. I'm just saying, you got some pretty powerful feelings for this guy, and maybe that's not something you should throw away."

Jensen flushes again at the mention of their own past, but Chris has a point. He never thought twice about his vocation before now, even in the thick of his first yearning. He never felt this ripped up inside over Chris.

"I don't know what to do," he says helplessly. "I love the Church, Chris. You know I do. But Jared ..."

"Ask yourself one question," Chris says. "Which one can't you live without, for the rest of your life, amen? Don't answer me now. Think about it for a bit. Might not be the answer you want, but it might help clear your head."

"Okay."

Jensen's grateful for that much guidance, at least. He catches a glimpse of sutures in his peripheral vision and shies away, the guilt of trying not to live at all sitting heavy in his chest.

"Are you okay?" Chris asks, and it's the big-brother voice he's always used when Jensen's hurt. "Be straight with me, Jen."

"I'm ... I will be." He clears his throat. "I think. Thanks, Chris. For everything. I love you, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Chris is smiling; he can hear it in his voice. "You call me if you need to. Twenty-four-seven. Don't do this to me again, man. I'm not cut out for it anymore."

"Yes, you are."

"Yeah, well, it's not cut out for me." There's a moment of silence, and then Chris says, "There're other ways of serving God, Jensen. Think about that too, okay?"

"I will. I'm—I will." He wipes the tears off his face, scrubbing with the bottom edge of his t-shirt. "I'll let you go now."

"Keep me posted," Chris says, his usual farewell, and Jensen hangs up with a promise.

His head is a whirl of words and thoughts and feelings, images of Jared and Sandy, Jared and himself, Father Jeffrey's voice chiming in from his memory to add to the confusion. One thing Chris said keeps striking a chord underneath it all: _there are other ways of serving God_. He sees Jared smiling, eyes bright and fixed on him, and his heart swells.

Then he remembers that the wedding is a week away, the rehearsal scheduled for tomorrow. Final banns have been posted; he can't object now, even if he had the right. And Jared said nothing yesterday about leaving Sandy. He hasn't mentioned her to Jensen in weeks. But the ring is still on her finger, and Jensen can't bring himself to consider adultery again. He hasn't been thinking up until now; he's been avoiding, denying, reacting only when Jared pushes, and not in good ways. He needs to stop doing that, face the choice of what he wants, and then decide if it's worth losing the rest of what he is.

* * *

_It's a bright, glaringly sunny day. They're in the town square. Jared is on his knees again, but this time his head is down. Jensen can see sweat darkening the ends of his hair, sticking tacky to his face and neck._

_Or ... wait._

_Not sweat. Blood._

_Jared raises his eyes skyward, and Jensen sees the crown of thorns. Watches the blood run in tiny rivulets over smooth skin, dripping into the dust at their feet. Jared doesn't move to wipe it away. He doesn't appear to notice Jensen. His devotion is all for the heavens._

__Then Pilate took Jesus and had him scourged. And the soldiers wove a crown out of thorns and placed it on his head, and clothed him in a purple cloak, and they came to him and said, "Hail, King of the Jews!" And they struck him repeatedly. __

_Jensen is aware that he's dreaming. He doesn't feel the burning heat of the sun, taste the dust swirling in the air, hear the roars and jeers of the gathered crowd. He is an observer only, captive audience to whatever twisted imaginings his subconscious can create. He can't deny the terrible beauty of what he sees, even as he tries desperately to awaken. Jared makes a perfect Son of God, broken and ravaged, scourged and beaten until he cannot stand unaided._

_He's not stupid. He knows what his mind is telling him. The analogy is clumsy, but perfectly transparent._

_Jared is dragged to his feet by nameless, faceless men and burdened with a rough-hewn cross of heavy pine. He sways in exhaustion, but shoulders the load in silence. Jensen watches in horror as he is pushed and shoved along a pathway opening in the crowd, trudging up the long hill leading out of town. There's no exultation in Jared's form, no peaceful acceptance, no glory. There's just suffering, and humiliation, and pain._

_He needs to wake up now. He knows how this ends. But the dream continues and Jensen must follow, trailing behind friends and neighbours as they drive Jared mercilessly up the hill._

_There's an empty field behind the gas station. Jared stops there, the cross falling from his shoulder with a solid thump. He sinks to his knees, chest heaving as he gasps for air. His back is a mess of splinters and weals, bleeding freely and mixing with the sweat of his exertions. He wears only a faded pair of jeans, feet bare and cut to ribbons, and all over he's coated with golden, choking dust._

_Jensen tries to fight through the crowd to Jared's side, but sheer numbers and his lack of real presence defeat him. He skirts the edges of the gathering, creeping slowly closer, watching Jared's struggle to recover even as he prays to wake up._

__When they came to the place called the Skull, they crucified him and the criminals there, one on his right, the other on his left. __

_There are no others with him; this sin is theirs alone. Jensen watches dumbly as Jared is first lashed to the cross, then nailed to it, heavy iron spikes driven through his wrists and feet. He can't hear the screams, but Jared's face is eloquent enough. Jensen's heart burns into ash at his feet as the cross is raised into the air. There's an air of celebration almost, a vile and eager sense of camaraderie as the townsfolk hammer the cross into place and shore it up with staves. Someone is handing out beer; children are chasing each other gleefully, catcalling and dodging around the cross while Jared bleeds above._

_Sandy walks out of the midst of it all and stands forward, shading her eyes as she looks up. Jensen can't hear what she says, but he sees the spear in her hand._

_She looks over at him and tilts her head, offering him the blade. The sky goes dark._

* * *

When Jensen turns up right on schedule at the wedding rehearsal on Saturday, Jared thinks he's dreaming. He hasn't seen Jensen since that day in his apartment, has deliberately tried to forget he even exists. He thought Jensen was doing pretty much the same thing: it's a small town, but they haven't run into each other even once. He definitely wasn't expecting to see Jensen standing in front of the altar, forearms hidden behind a long-sleeved black shirt, collar pristine white in contrast.

He looks tired, Jared thinks before he reins himself in. It doesn't matter how Jensen looks, that the dark circles under his eyes and the deep lines beside his mouth make Jared want to lay him down somewhere and kiss him into sleep. Jensen made it pretty clear last week how things are between them, and in his more forgiving moods Jared can admit he can see where Jensen's coming from.

He doesn't feel very forgiving right now, though. He feels like a single point of contact with Jensen will send him up in flames.

If there were any doubt left about his feelings for Sandy, they're gone. He only has to look at her to realise there's nothing to compare. He loves her; of course he does. He's known her since he was five. She's as much a part of him as his family—and that's exactly the point. She's family. It took meeting Jensen to make Jared see the difference.

He'll have to talk to her, explain things. It's going to suck, and it'll hurt like hell, but he's not one for letting things fester. He should do it right now, but Sandy hates making a scene. After the rehearsal will be better; he'll lay it out for her then. Not all of it—Jensen's secrets aren't his to share—but he'll tell her everything else. He's always told Sandy everything anyway.

Jared turns his attention back to Jensen, checking him over again. He really does look like shit: pale and drawn and moving carefully, as if he's injured. Jared sees him wince as he reaches for the Bible on the altar, and wonders what the hell Jensen's been doing to himself. He feels a strong urge to drag him aside and inspect his wrists, demand answers one last time. It's difficult to keep still, pretend not to care when Jensen's glance passes over him without pausing. Jared digs his fingernails into his palms and manages a smile at Sandy when she turns to him, grinning.

The rehearsal is bittersweet and exquisitely frustrating. Sandy positively sparkles with joy, her voice ringing out clear as a bell when she speaks. She keeps looking sideways at Jared all the way through Jensen's summary of the nuptial blessing, teeth catching on her lip in coy flirtation. Jared struggles to keep smiling, when all he wants is to grab Jensen and hide them both away until he can make him see sense. He's not blind; he can see the glances Jensen's throwing at him, horribly ironic in the way he and Sandy are mimicking each other. Hope rises in his chest with every look despite his best intentions, the growing conviction that Jensen isn't half as indifferent as he appears to be. Their gazes connect more and more often as the rehearsal draws to a close.

By the time they reach the Pater Noster, Jared's about ready to explode. Jensen's stumbling through the last few lines, eyes flicking to Jared every few seconds, and Jared's just waiting for it to be over. He's not leaving until he makes Jensen talk, because what he's seeing doesn't look like a man at peace with his choices at all.

Afterward, Sandy gathers up her purse and reaches up to kiss Jared's cheek. "I'll see you later?" she asks, smoothing his hair away from his face.

"I'll come by after dinner," Jared says, and kisses her forehead. She nods and calls out a farewell to Jensen as she leaves.

The minute she's outside, Jared's taking the stairs to the altar two at a time, getting Jensen's hand in his and all but dragging him to the rear of the church. There's a door leading out to the courtyard; Jared stops them there, swinging Jensen around and trapping him against the wall.

"What the hell is going on with you?" he says. "Talk to me."

Jensen shakes his head and looks away, mouth set in a straight line.

"I can't."

"You can." Jared leans in, hands resting on either side of Jensen's head, trying to surround him. "It's just you and me here, man. I wanna know what's happening in here." He taps Jensen's temple, then trails his fingers down over cheekbone and jaw, resting against Jensen's mouth. "Open up," he whispers. "Let me in."

"I ..." Jensen lets out a shaky breath, but he doesn't move away. "You belong with Sandy, Jared. Can't we just leave it at that?"

"No," Jared says. "Me and Sandy, we're done. Whether you and me happens or not, Jensen, I ain't getting married next weekend."

Jensen's eyes snap back to his, and Jared sees the flare of hope that matches his own, before Jensen banks it down to nothing.

"Think about what you're saying," Jensen begins, but Jared's got his number now.

"Why don't _you_ think about what I'm saying," he invites, pitching his voice low. "I mean it, Jensen. Five minutes with you and I'm more messed up than I have been in the last five years with Sandy. Being with her is easy. Safe. Comfortable." He slides his hand down to Jensen's neck, stroking soft. "Being with you makes me feel alive."

"You could still—" Jensen says, but stops when Jared shakes his head.

"I'm not gonna lie to her like that. I love her too much. I can't pretend, Jensen. Might be easier on all of us if I could, but I'm not wired that way."

Jensen swallows hard, breath coming quicker than before. Jared waits for whatever's coming. All his cards are on the table now; the next move is all on Jensen.

"I don't know if ... I can do this," Jensen says at last. He puts his hand around Jared's wrist, not fighting, just holding.

"Do what?" Jared asks quietly.

"Go back to the Church," Jensen answers. "Walk away from you."

The words hang there in the air, soft and hesitant. Jared's hand flexes at Jensen's throat, involuntary; Jensen draws in a sharp breath, eyes flaring again as their gazes meet and catch.

Jared never knows afterward which of them moves first. It feels inevitable, like a law of physics: himself and Jensen moving inexorably closer until they collide at mouth and chest and hip, clinging together, positive and negative, opposites attracting. Jensen's hands wrap around his back, dragging him in; Jared goes willingly, pressing, crowding Jensen against the wall of the church until there's no room at all between them.

Jared wrenches his mouth away with a dirty, wet sound and heaves for breath against Jensen's lips. He can't hear anything but the harsh pants escaping them both, can't feel anything but the pounding of Jensen's heart against his own and the rush of want and need flowing through his veins. Jensen's practically vibrating against him, hands flexing in Jared's shirt where he's grabbing it at the waist. Jared mouths under Jensen's neck for a moment, sucking and biting a deep red mark there, and then comes to a sudden decision.

Jensen's eyes snap open in shock as Jared sinks to his knees. His mouth is open in a perfect O of surprise; Jared thinks hazily that he almost wishes he were looking down at Jensen on his knees, but he wants it too much to switch things around now. He's got Jensen's zipper down and is dragging his pants down over his hips before Jensen inhales a long, shaky breath. Jared pauses to see what he'll do, whether he'll call a stop to it; he wants this more than he wants to keep breathing, but he'll walk away if Jensen says no. Then he feels Jensen's hand move light as air over his head, settling on the back of his neck, and his whole body flashes hot.

He's scrabbling to get Jensen's pants and boxers down all at once, when a flash of black catches his eye. It's a thin line of ink running across Jensen's body below his stomach, small black circles in a row. Jared leans in to investigate; when he realises what he's looking at, he nearly falls on his ass in shock.

It's a tattoo. An intricate, detailed inscription of beads tracing the delicate skin between abs and pelvis, skating across hipbones and flanks and disappearing into the unseen realm of Jensen's back. Jared leans to the side, pushing Jensen's shirt out of the way to follow the line; it goes all the way around, dipping briefly at the small of his back and resting across his hips like a girdle. When he leans to the other side, he sees the swaying centre of the rosary, ending in a small but ornate crucifix in black and green that lies angled down Jensen's left thigh.

"Oh, my God," Jared breathes, almost to himself. He can't take his eyes off it. He wants to lick it, suck it, bite it raw until it's red and glistening under his mouth. He wants to replace the Church's mark on Jensen with a stronger one of his own.

Jensen's hand clenches momentarily on his neck. When he speaks, his voice is rough, dark with pain and need.

"I wanted to feel closer to God," he says.

Jared looks up into his eyes and sees Jensen's conflict, the agony that being with Jared is causing him. He wants to devour and soothe at once, wants to take the pain away and stoke the need until they both go up in flames.

"I want you to feel closer to me," he replies, and leans in to tongue at the cross.

Jensen's eyes close on a moan, and his head rolls back against the wall as Jared bites and sucks at the patch of ink, making it rosy and sensitive to touch. He presses kisses all the way across Jensen's hips, covering every inch of coloured skin with his touch. Jensen's cock rises up hard against his belly, inviting Jared to taste. He abandons the tattoo in favour of its heady scent, skimming his lips over it, tongue flicking out to taste the clear fluid gathered at the head. Jensen's hand clenches in his hair, and Jared grins as he opens his mouth to take the length of Jensen in.

It's awkward and clumsy on both sides; Jared's never done this before, and Jensen doesn't seem to have either, although Jared finds that hard to believe. They fumble for a bit, trying to find a rhythm that works without choking Jared, and when they hit on one it's almost like magic how fast everything clicks into place. Jensen's hand on the back of his neck, gently guiding, and Jared working his mouth and tongue over the last few inches of Jensen's cock, one hand fisting him at the base. It makes Jared harder than stone to hear and feel Jensen's reactions, the shudders and broken-off words that mostly seem to be his name. He wishes he were better at this, so he could make Jensen yell for him, right out loud.

He pulls off, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Jensen's eyes crack open, heavy and sultry, lower lip swollen from his own teeth.

"Okay?" Jared grates, his voice gone husky.

Jensen drags him up to kiss him, tongue plunging deep, one hand diving into Jared's jeans to get at his cock. Jared chokes on a gasp when Jensen's hand closes around him and starts to stroke, falling back against the wall and pulling Jensen around with him. Jensen leans into his neck, mouthing and biting the tendon, nosing down into the collar of his shirt while his hand makes Jared see stars. He can't catch his breath; he barely remembers to keep up his own end, getting his hand back on Jensen to return the favour.

"God," Jensen gasps, forehead digging into Jared's collarbone. "Jared—I want, God, been dreaming about this ... you, and I—" He leans up and takes Jared's mouth in a hard, deep kiss, wet strokes of his tongue giving Jared a pretty good idea what those dreams are about.

Jared breaks away, gasping, "Holy fucking God, Jensen— _yes_."

Jensen doesn't pretend to misunderstand him. His eyes, already dark with want, get even more blown as Jared's words sink in. Jared kisses him again and turns around to face the wall, bracing himself on his forearms. His jeans are hanging precariously on the cut of his hips; a single twitch sends them pooling down his legs, warm air swirling around the bare skin of his ass.

"Fuck me, Jensen," he says. "I want you to."

Jensen moans right in his ear, palming his ass before Jared draws another breath. That jacks Jared right up, gets him so twisted and turned on he can't think. He lets his head drop down, hair falling in his face, watching from beneath as Jensen lines up behind him and snakes a hand around to jerk him off. The sight hits him in a deep, visceral way; he shivers all over and backs into Jensen's body, needing contact. Jensen wraps his arm around Jared's waist and hauls him in close, nosing and kissing along his neck under his hair, winding him up even further.

"It'll hurt," Jensen whispers into his neck.

"I don't care," Jared says, and means it. He wants to bind Jensen to him right now, however he can; a little raw fucking isn't going to kill him. They have spit and sweat and precome, and that will have to do.

Jensen opens him up carefully, taking what feels like hours to make sure Jared's as ready as he can be. Jared rests his forehead against his arms on the wall and spreads his legs wide, inviting Jensen every way he can to follow through, seal them together. It's probably less than five minutes by the time Jensen's cock slides inside, but Jared feels like he's been waiting forever.

It's worth the wait. There's a moment or two of burning friction, when it's all too much; then Jensen slides out and back in, slowly, and it starts to feel better. It feels better than better, when Jensen forgets to be careful and thrusts hard; Jared grunts and pushes back into it, and suddenly there's no pain at all. Jensen's arm comes back around and strokes him back to hardness, and the glide of flesh on flesh inside and out makes Jared feel whole. He turns his head and closes his eyes, teeth digging into his lip to keep his moans under control.

Jensen's thrusts begin to speed up, grinding harder and deeper, dragging Jared's response out of him without control or finesse. It's an urgent, furtive coupling, but it feels like everything he's ever been missing in his quiet, hometown life. Jared rolls his hips back to take it, gasping Jensen's name, orgasm ripping through him without warning and leaving him drained, replete. He sags against the wall, Jensen following him in, pulling out and turning Jared around to kiss him.

Jared reaches for Jensen's cock, slick and hard and red, and jerks him off furiously, tongue deep in Jensen's mouth. Jensen lets out a muffled groan and bucks forward into him, pulsing and spilling over his hand, grabbing Jared's shoulder for balance.

Right then, in the space between breaths, Jared hears Sandy calling his name.

There's no time to pull away, get dressed, make this look like anything other than what it is. Jared's barely managed to blink when Sandy rounds the corner and sees them there together, half-naked and clinging, sight and smell confirming louder than words what's just happened. Jared stares at her dumbly, throat working, and watches the sparkle in her eyes sputter and die.

"Jared," she whispers in a shattered voice, and turns to run.

"Sandy!" Jared yells, as Jensen stumbles away in shock, eyes wide and chest heaving. "Jesus fucking Christ— _Sandy_!"

He throws a desperate look at Jensen and runs after her, dragging his pants up as he goes.

* * *

Jensen watches in mute shock as Jared takes off after Sandy, trying to dress himself again. He looks vaguely ridiculous going at a half-staggering run with his jeans tangled about his thighs, but Jensen doesn't feel like laughing.

He slides to the ground right where he is, head bumping against the hard stone of the church wall. There's a splash of Jared's come on his trousers, pale and milky-looking against stark black.

Jensen touches a finger to it and brings it to his mouth. Nausea rises up at the taste, and he leans to the side and retches, empty stomach heaving bile until he slumps back, exhausted.

Jared hasn't come back. Jensen gets to his feet, puts himself back together on the outside and starts walking steadily toward his apartment. He has things to do.

* * *

Jared trips and nearly falls flat on his face as he rounds the corner, the cuffs of his jeans catching under his feet. He takes a precious few seconds to stop and get dressed properly, wincing as he tucks his sensitive cock out of the way. The ghost of Jensen's touch is still there, making him half-hard again, but now is _so_ not the time for that. Jared shakes his head to dispel the heated thoughts already forming, and picks up his pace again.

Sandy hasn't gone far. Jared catches up to her after only a few minutes, though she tries to speed up to avoid him. They're still on the church grounds, in the narrow stretch of land between the church proper and the graveyard, close to the road. It's quiet and relatively private, shielded by a line of jacaranda, their branches heavy with lilac blossoms.

"Sandy," he says, slowing down as he reaches her. "Hey, come on. Stop. Look at me."

"I can't," Sandy replies. Her voice is low, and she keeps her face turned away, but he can tell she's crying. "Go away, Jared."

"I can't," he echoes. "Sandy, what you saw—that wasn't—"

"Don't you _dare_." She does turn around then, eyes wet and huge and deathly cold. "Don't you dare tell me it wasn't what it looked like, Jared. I'm not stupid. I came back to check whether you wanted to come over for dinner and I found you _fucking our priest_." Her mouth twists in an ugly line. "I didn't know that was part of the ceremony."

"I—" Jared feels his face heating, turning red, and drops his gaze. "Yeah. Okay. But I promise, Sandy, it wasn't _planned_ , we didn't mean—"

"You promise." Sandy's voice is cold now too, icy with fury and hurt. Jared looks at her again and sees with a sinking heart just how much damage he's done. "You promised you'd wait for me, Jared. You promised we'd give ourselves to each other, after we were married. I _waited_ for you. I wanted to do that—I _still_ want—"

She wipes a trembling hand over her face, wiping away tears. Jared's got a hand out to draw her closer, wanting only to offer comfort for the pain he's caused; Sandy looks down and flinches, her eyes filling again.

Jared follows her gaze and feels sick when he sees Jensen's come all over his fingers. He lets his hand drop, fighting the urge to hide it behind his back.

"Is that why you've been so distant, these last few weeks? Why you've hardly touched me?" Sandy asks quietly, one hand at her throat, the other holding her purse in a death grip. "I thought it was wedding jitters or something, but ... was it him?"

Jared makes himself nod. He wants to lie, to tell her _anything_ that won't hurt her more than she already is, but her face is set in a blank mask and he's scared to try. He's never lied to Sandy; he can't do it now.

"It wasn't—we didn't ..." he begins, but falls silent when she recoils.

"I believe you." Sandy meets his eyes then, just for a second. "I do, Jared."

It's Jared's turn to wince at her choice of words.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, hands clenching helplessly by his sides. "Sandy, I ..."

"Don't say it," she says. "Don't you _fucking_ say it, Jared, or I will kill you where you stand."

They stare at each other for a long moment. Jared hears birds and the wind rustling through the trees, the faint sound of traffic through the streets, and the sound of something precious falling apart in front of him. Part of him wants to reach out and try to grab it, patch it back together, but the pieces are already too small, too many jagged edges to ever fit smooth again.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and his voice is rough with tears. "I'm _sorry_."

"Just—go away, Jared," Sandy tells him tightly. She looks ten years older than she did half an hour ago. Sunlight dances in the diamond he bought for her, and Jared backs up a step. "Leave me alone. I can't talk to you."

"Can I call you tomorrow?" He doesn't want to leave things like this. Sandy's his oldest friend, the one who knows him better than anybody; he owes her more than these few minutes of apology. "I just, I want to make sure you're okay—"

" _I said go away_!" she yells, sudden and shocking, and Jared stumbles back, mouth open wide. Sandy's pale and shaking, tears spilling over again, her whole body curling in as if to protect herself from him.

He nods dumbly and stops right there, watching her walk away. Twenty years they've known each other; losing her is already tearing a hole inside him so deep Jared's not sure it'll ever be filled. He turns around when she disappears from view, wanting Jensen's arms around him to block out the pain.

"Oh, God," he says aloud, remembering how he left him. " _Jensen_."

He starts off at a dead run, heart pounding in sudden panic, but it's too late. When he gets back Jensen's already gone.

* * *

Jared arrives back at the church out of breath and sick at heart, needing Jensen to assure him this is all worthwhile. Sandy's never going to forgive him, that much is clear; Jared knows he's going to fall apart over that at some point, but he has to find Jensen first.

He dashes around to the rear of the church, heading directly for Jensen's cottage, and almost literally runs into Bob standing right outside the door. The look on his face makes Jared's stomach drop: Bob's deeply upset about something, probably coming to Jensen for help. Jared skids to a halt just shy of him and pants for breath, hands on his knees.

"Father?" he gasps, and Bob shakes his head, staring from Jensen's door to the note in his hand. "Is everything—are you okay?"

Bob turns around, finally seeming to realise Jared's there. He won't meet Jared's eyes, thrusting the note at him and stepping away the minute Jared reaches out to take it. Jared straightens out of his half-crouch and unfolds the paper.

> _Father,_
> 
> _I have forsaken my vows beyond redemption. I can't tell you why or even ask for absolution because, weak as I am, I do not repent._
> 
> _I cannot remain in the service of the Lord or the Church. My sins are too grave, and my soul too conflicted. I'm going to try to get some sense back into my head—or maybe put some there for the first time. I think I'll be gone for a while._
> 
> _Please try not to think badly of me. I fell from grace—but I fell into love. I'm not—I can't be sorry about it._
> 
> _Tell Jared that. I'll never regret loving him, only what it cost. Tell him I hope he can be happy._
> 
> _Jensen_

Jared stares at the words, realisation hitting like a punch, panic the follow-through. Jensen's leaving—has already left, from the sound of it, taking Jared's future with him. He must have thought, when Jared went after Sandy ...

"Fucking hell," Jared swears, thrusting the note back at Bob. "Sorry, Father, but I—" He stops short as Bob grabs his arm.

"Never mind that," he says, eyes narrowed on Jared's face. "You two are ...?" He makes an aborted gesture, and Jared nods.

"Yeah. Well, kind of. I mean, I want, but Jensen—" He stops, takes a breath, forces his voice steady. "I love him, Father. I think—he's scared of that. I have to find him."

"His truck's dead," Bob says. "Head gasket blew up yesterday. He's gonna have to get the bus. I saw the taxi leaving, but I never thought ..."

The Greyhound station is two miles away, at the other end of town. Jared's already turning to leave when Bob speaks again.

"You boys ... take care of each other, all right?"

Jared looks back and sees Bob standing there, clutching the note like it's his salvation. He smiles, and watches Bob's face lighten in return.

"Swear to God," Jared promises, and takes off at a run.

* * *

Jared doesn't think. He just runs, as fast as he can, straight through the middle of town. People call out to him as he passes, friends and extended family wanting to know where the fire is, what's his hurry; Jared ignores them all and pushes himself faster. Thunder rumbles above, clouds colliding in unrest that mirrors the whirl of urgency inside him. He has to get to Jensen.

_Please, God_ , Jared prays, gasping past the stitch burning in his side. _Don't let him leave without me._

It starts to rain, huge warm drops pelting down with enough force to sting. Jared wipes his face clear and keeps going.

He crests the gentle rise at the end of the street, passing the gas station on the left. The bus depot is half a mile away, people milling aimlessly around, umbrellas blocking his view. Jared scans the lot as he gets closer, looking for Jensen's tall form dressed in black. His side is on fire; he can't quite catch his breath. Rain keeps getting in his eyes, blurring his vision. He watches a bus pull out of the lot, sick with the thought that Jensen might already be gone.

A family of five moves to the side, freeing up his line of sight, and Jared sees a queue of people waiting to board a bus bound for Illinois. It's getting darker as more clouds gather; visibility sucks, but lightning etches the scene in crisp clarity for the briefest of moments, and Jensen's suddenly _there_. Fifth in line, shoulders hunched, duffel slung across his back and his leather jacket getting slowly soaked by the rain. His head's down, staring at his boots. Jared looks at him and forgets to breathe.

_Thank you, God_ , he thinks, knees gone weak with relief. He's still running, slowing down to a jog as he gets closer; Jensen's still looking down, hasn't seen him yet. Jared's watching him so closely he forgets to look where he's going, and when he's about ten feet away he stumbles. The parking lot isn't paved past the depot's overhanging roof; the ground is hardpacked clay, rapidly turning to slick mud in the downpour. Jared slips and loses his footing, momentum keeping him moving forward as he goes to his knees. He slides the last few feet, mud splattering everywhere, and comes to a stop an arm's length from Jensen's side. The other folks in line are staring, but Jared couldn't give a damn. He's got one thing on his mind right now, and it's not his reputation.

He sees Jensen startle into awareness, raising his head a little. He knows the moment Jensen realises Jared's there, watches his whole body melt and then go stiff in the space of a second, rigidly holding himself in check. It makes him ache; he wants to twine himself around Jensen and smooth all his sharp edges away, get down deep into the centre of him and set up house there forever. He knows Jensen won't believe that, not at first, but he's damned if he'll let him go. He's damned anyway; he deserves to be happy about it. They both do.

"What are you doing here?" After that first startled glance, Jensen looks away; he's speaking to the ground, refusing to meet Jared's eyes. "You should be with Sandy."

"No, I shouldn't." Jared stays on his knees, ready to grab for Jensen's legs if he tries to run. "Bob showed me your note."

Jensen flinches, face losing what little colour it had, and he goes even more rigid.

"Go away, Jared."

"No."

"Please." Jensen's voice breaks on the word. "I can't—you don't want to do this. You had plans—Sandy—"

_Had_ , Jared notes, and hope starts to rise inside him.

"Plans change," he says, and lays a hand lightly on Jensen's ankle. " _People_ change, Jensen. Sandy and me—" He shakes his head. "Inertia is no reason to get married."

"I can't. I _won't_." Jensen's voice turns rough. "I can't stay here. I have to get my head on straight. Everything's completely _fucked_ , and I—you—"

"I love you," Jared says, and Jensen stops dead.

"No."

"Yes." Jared is calm. He can see Jensen trembling, fine shudders wracking his body, and he knows how this will end. "Don't leave me, Jen."

" _No_." Jensen turns to him then; he looks devastated, eyes huge and dark in his pale face. "Jared, you can't. You have a whole life here, a good life. Don't ruin it. You deserve—" He snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You deserve better."

"Better than you?" Jared asks, and smiles up at him, hiding nothing. "Ain't no such thing."

Jensen stares back, mouth open to speak, and Jared slides his hands up Jensen's calves.

"If you get on this bus," Jared says, "I'll be right behind you. I will follow you in nothing but the clothes on my back for however long it takes for you to realise I mean what I'm saying." He flexes his fingers, and sees Jensen swallow hard. "It's not stalking if it's real love, right?"

It hangs there for a long second, all his hopes balanced on a single lame joke. When Jensen crumbles, emotionally and physically, it's all Jared can do to catch him before they both topple into the mud. He drags Jensen against his chest and wraps him up tight, tucking his face into Jensen's neck and thanking God with every fibre of his being. Jensen's clinging back just as hard, shaking his duffel off to get closer, practically climbing into Jared's lap as they kneel in the muck. Jared can feel the moment Jensen lets it all go, his body shaking, fingernails digging into his shoulders, and he just hangs on and rides it out, ignoring his own tears of relief and want and love.

People are whispering to each other, staring openly at them. Jared barely registers this, but he knows Jensen will freak. He opens his eyes and glares at them, friends and strangers alike, meeting each and every gaze until theirs fall away, chastened and embarrassed. Then he squeezes Jensen a final time and pulls back to look at him.

"You look like shit," he says, and Jensen half-chokes on laughter.

"Look who's talking." Jensen's hands come up to frame Jared's face, warm and welcome. "I can't believe you."

"You will. Give it time." Jared smiles as Jensen flushes, but holds his gaze. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What happens now?" Jensen asks, thumbs tracing over Jared's cheekbones. "I was just gonna _go_ , it didn't matter where."

"We can do that," Jared tells him, and forestalls Jensen's protest with a finger on his lips. "I don't want to stay here, Jensen. I want us to get out, go somewhere together. I'll sell the shop to Kim or something. We can decide the details later—after a shower, preferably. Okay?"

"Okay." Jensen sighs and presses his forehead against Jared's, finally relaxing in his hold. "Okay."

"Good. Now get the hell off me, you're heavy." Jared slaps his ass and grins when Jensen yelps.

They get to their feet, Jensen giving him a hand up, and stand there awkwardly for a moment. Jared wants to reach out again, keep a hand on Jensen just to be sure, but he doesn't want to smother him. He sees Jensen stealing a glance, teeth worrying his bottom lip, and thinks, _Fuck it_. He takes Jensen's hand, laces their fingers together, and leans in for a kiss, lips already tingling.

Jensen groans into his mouth, slamming hard against his body, his hands going into Jared's hair and gripping tight. Jared meant for it to be gentle, but it's not; it's shocking and raw and almost violent, Jensen pressing closer, biting and licking deep, frantic and desperate. Jared holds on to him at hip and neck, opening up and taking it, giving back as good as he gets until the storm passes and they break for breath. Jensen gulps for air, not letting go, headbutting Jared's shoulder now and then as they calm down.

"Home. Shower. Bed," Jared orders at last, picking up Jensen's duffel and grimacing as it comes free of the mud with a squelching sound. "All right?"

"All right," Jensen agrees, speaking into his neck, and then sighs and pulls away. Jared kisses his forehead and mouth, quickly, and Jensen falls into step beside him, reaching for his hand.

* * *

They leave town the following Thursday, early, before the sun is fully up. Bob's the only one who sees them leave; he's the only one in town who's even speaking to them anymore, aside from Jared's immediate family and Chad. It's surprising just how supportive Chad's been, although Jensen supposes he _shouldn't_ be surprised. Chad's a sweet guy, baseball preferences aside, and Jensen guesses he's been talking to Chris about it some.

Jensen knows Jared's avoiding thinking about the whole situation. Sandy won't return his calls, doesn't come to the door when Jared knocks, crosses the street to avoid him in public. It's going to hit Jared soon, and hard, what he's leaving behind; when it does, Jensen plans to be right there to hold him up. _Give it time_ , Jared had said, and that's one thing Jensen has in abundance. They'll get through it. He's starting to believe that now.

He sends a text message to Chris from the passenger seat of Jared's Jeep: _Right again, damn you. Thanks_. Thirty seconds later he gets a smiley face back, and warmth settles deep in his gut. It feels permanent. It feels right.

"Northward ho," Jared says, slanting a sideways grin at him. Jensen flips on the radio and grins.


	5. Chapter 5

**EPILOGUE**

 

Their first night on the road together is one Jensen will never forget.

They drive pretty much all day, heading toward San Antonio. Jensen has a vague idea of going to visit Chris (not checking up on him, not at all), but he's not sure how Jared will take that. When Jared asks him where he wants to go, he just says, "North," and leaves it at that.

Conversation is thin on the ground, but that's okay. There are shared looks and smiles and every now and then Jared will reach over and put his hand on Jensen's thigh, or Jensen will slide his fingers through the hair lying over Jared's neck, and it's good. It's _peaceful_ , almost, in comparison to the turmoil they've gone through to get here. Jensen's not sure the rocky times are over—he'll probably freak out another dozen times, and there's still his resignation from the church to deal with—but he's okay with that too. Jared's worth it. _They're_ worth it.

His thoughts turn in a less pure direction when the sun starts to slip over the western horizon. Jared's driving again; he looks over and raises an eyebrow, and Jensen's stomach rumbles on cue.

"Thought so," Jared says with a grin. "Holler when you see something that looks good."

Jensen looks him over, making sure Jared sees the heat he's starting to feel, lingering on Jared's lap before letting his eyes wander back up to his face. Jared swallows and turns quickly back to the road.

"Yeah, uh. I'll just." He changes lanes with a terrifying lack of concern for other drivers, heading for an exit. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jensen shifts in his seat, turning sideways to watch Jared drive. "Find us somewhere to stay. Don't take too long."

Jared's hands clench hard on the wheel, and the Jeep jumps ahead as he slams his foot down. Jensen smiles and settles back, anticipation building low and heavy in his gut.

They find a motel with a McDonalds attached. Jared goes for the food while Jensen books the room. He has to remind himself not to say "Father" when he's signing in at the desk, and it hurts.

 _Don't think about it_ , he instructs himself. _Not yet._ There's time for that later. This is the closest he'll ever get to a honeymoon, and he wants to enjoy it.

He waits outside the room. It's hot; the storms of last week have passed, taking with them the stifling humidity but not the heat. Texas will be broiling right through September if this keeps up. Jensen pulls his t-shirt away from his body and starts thinking about cold showers for an entirely different reason than usual. Not that there's been a lot of opportunities for him and Jared to be alone together; sympathetic though he is, Bob wasn't about to let them go at it under his roof, and Jensen can't really blame him. Instead, he took a lot of long walks in the evenings, and if he happened to run into Jared doing the same thing, well ... they weren't on church grounds at the time.

Jared reappears a minute later with burgers in hand. Jensen locks the door behind them with a sense of overwhelming relief; finally, they're alone together, in private, in a place where they can't be interrupted or separated, and there's nothing between them but air. He looks over at Jared and feels the slow heat inside finally boil over.

"Hey," he says, and Jared looks up. Their eyes meet, connect, hold.

"Dinner," Jared says faintly, hands already at his belt buckle.

"Later." Jensen stalks him across the room, coming up close with his hands over Jared's. "Much later."

"Cold burgers are completely gross," Jared points out, but he's already got a hand around Jensen's neck, drawing him in.

It feels different now. The soul-rending anguish is gone, leaving only the intensity of their connection and the pure carnal _want_ that turns Jensen's thoughts to dust. He kisses Jared deep and hard, glorying in it, taking Jared's tongue into his mouth in turn until they're gasping for breath into each other's necks. Jared's hands are busy, running down Jensen's back and gripping his shirt, pulling it off; Jensen takes his hands away from Jared's hips long enough to get rid of it, then goes back to fighting with Jared's button fly.

"Zippers, for crying out loud," he moans in frustration, nipping Jared's neck. "Look 'em up."

"This is more fun," Jared says breathlessly. He presses into Jensen's hand. "Gotta make you work for it a little bit."

Jensen gets the last button free and palms Jared's cock, kissing his gasp right out of his mouth. He smiles into it and slides his other hand down over Jared's ass, index finger dipping between. Jared pushes back into it, then forward into his hold, and Jensen is suddenly, fiercely glad he's here.

"I love you," he whispers, and Jared goes still.

"Say that again."

Jensen pulls back to look at him. Jared's wide-eyed, disheveled and looking like debauched innocence with his shirt open and his jeans undone. Jensen guesses that's exactly what he is, in a way.

"I love you," he says again, steady and clear. "More than anything."

Jared stares at him for a long moment, unmoving. Then he makes a noise deep in his throat and surges forward, dragging Jensen with him onto the bed. Jensen falls on top of him and Jared holds him there, wraps him up tight and kisses him like he's dying. Jensen makes fists in Jared's hair and kisses back, drawn into his urgency, feeling light and hot and desperate to fuck.

"Fuck me," Jared breathes, right into his open mouth. "Fuck me _right now_ , Jensen, God."

Jensen bites Jared's lip, soothes it with a lick. "Say please."

" _Please._ " Jared kisses under his jaw, one kiss for every plea. "Please, please, please, Jensen, please ..."

His head's spinning. Jared's wriggling under him, kicking his jeans off, working on Jensen's and shoving them off as far as he can. Jensen braces himself over Jared's body and leans down for another kiss, leaving Jared gasping for air when he stands up to finish stripping. He finds his shaving kit among their combined baggage and pulls the K-Y out.

"Where—" Jared asks, and Jensen flushes hot.

"Gas station, a few hours back," he admits. "Nearly died on the spot when I paid for it."

Jared's eyes grow darker.

"Bring it here," he orders, voice gone husky, and Jensen goes as if magnetised. Jared kisses him, short and chaste.

"Use it," he says, and lies down flat, drawing one leg up.

Jensen kisses him again and flips the cap open. It's cold and slippery on his fingers, and he warms it up a little before he reaches down, watching Jared's eyes close when he presses in lightly. He jerks Jared's cock slowly with his other hand, leaning in to taste and suck a little, taking his time like they haven't before. Jared melts into the mattress, arms over his head, his whole body laid out like a sacrifice, a golden idol for Jensen's worship. Jensen moves up to kiss some of that beautiful skin, feel it under his tongue and between his teeth, hear Jared moan his name and twist under his touch. It's not long before Jared's grabbing at him, profanities and blasphemies pouring out of him, fisting Jensen's cock and trying to pull him closer, and Jensen gives in.

"Shh," he soothes, passing a hand over Jared's hip. "Sh, love, I'm coming ..."

"Fuck me," Jared begs. "Christ in heaven, Jensen, _please_."

Jensen slides between Jared's spread thighs and pushes his knees up. Jared grips his own calves for support, willingly baring himself to Jensen's gaze. That's about all Jensen can take; he slides his face along Jared's inner thigh, lines himself up, and slowly pushes in.

It's so slick this time, is the first thing he thinks, but that only lasts for a second because Jared is already keening and trying to get closer. Jensen unfolds Jared's legs over his shoulders, supports himself on his hands by Jared's hips, and finally, finally lets himself do what he's been dreaming about for weeks: he fucks.

It's not like the first time, full of pain and guilt and loss; it's just _hot_ , razor-sharp pleasure sliding up his spine with every thrust, Jared's body welcoming him in, clinging when he withdraws, like Jared wants to keep him inside forever. Jensen sets a rhythm, in-out-in-out, steady and deep and unforgiving, and soon Jared's writhing and bucking up into him, fisting himself on the counterstroke. It's unbearable to watch; Jensen closes his eyes and fucks harder, pushes deeper, trying to bury himself as deep inside Jared as he can get. Jared makes that noise again, deep in his throat, and then he's coming, hand moving double-time as he strokes through it, and it's the most glorious thing Jensen's ever seen. He kisses Jared's knee and keeps going, feeling the burn in his back and shoulders and not caring because he _loves_ this, loves Jared, wants to do this every day for the rest of his life and straight down into hell. He feels Jared shift, opens his eyes again and sees him gripping the headboard and staring at Jensen with sultry eyes.

"Do it," Jared rasps through kiss-red lips. "Come on, Jen, fuck me, fuck me _up_ , please—"

Jensen turns his head and bites Jared's calf, shifts his hips a bit higher, and it takes everything up a notch. Jensen pulls out on his next stroke and pushes Jared over onto his stomach, lying full-length over him for a moment and making sure Jared's got a good grip on the headboard. Then he's sliding back in, slamming into Jared over and over, pushing those long lean thighs apart and hearing Jared gasp in shock and renewed want. Jared pushes back to meet him thrusting in, and the double friction makes Jensen a little crazy. He reaches around to stroke Jared's cock, making him hard again, and Jared _whines_ and pushes up onto his knees to take Jensen deeper. The bed is creaking and twanging under them like there's twelve people in the bed instead of two, and someone's thumping on the wall next door and Jensen doesn't fucking _care_. He licks across Jared's shoulder and bites, and Jared rears up so hard something cracks underneath them.

Jensen's got no idea what's going on: he's caught in the wonder of fucking Jared, everything coming together at once to spill out of him in pulses of pleasure that leave him limp and wrung out, sore and heart-full and happy. He collapses onto Jared's shoulder and slides off onto the floor, and that's when he realises they've broken the fucking bed.

"Dude," Jared gasps, laughter threading through his voice. "We're gonna have to pay for this."

Jensen waves a hand weakly. "Fuck it. I'll pay double."

* * *

Jensen's not sure at first what's woken him. It's the middle of the night and not that hot; the air-con works in this room, thank the Lord. He and Jared dragged the mattress off the broken base earlier, and they're pretty comfortable on the floor. Jared's curled up beside him, not moving, and the moment Jensen realises this is when Jared shudders again.

"Jared?" He puts a hand on Jared's shoulder. "Hey, what ..."

Jared curls up tighter and chokes out an apology, and Jensen realises he's crying. He pulls Jared back and wraps his arms around him, tucking his face into his neck. The crash has come, sooner than he thought it would.

"It's all right," he whispers. "It's okay, Jared. I get it. Let it go."

Jared's hugging one of the pillows; he puts his face into it and cries for real now, soft gasping sobs that make Jensen's heart ache. He presses kisses over Jared's shoulders and neck, tries to envelop him, and waits for the storm to pass. It takes a while, and Jared won't look at him when he's done.

"Thirsty?" Jensen asks, and Jared nods. Jensen kisses his hair and gets up, fetching a glass of water and a washcloth. Jared uncurls enough to drink it and wipe his face, staring down at the floor afterward.

"Jared, look at me," Jensen says. "Please?"

That gets a response; Jared raises his head slowly, almost flinching when he meets Jensen's gaze. Jensen holds up his wrists so Jared can see the scars.

"I get it," he repeats. "And it's _okay_."

Jared gazes at his wrists for a long moment, his mouth working; finally he nods and exhales, and Jensen can see the tension leave him in a rush. He gets back into bed and pulls Jared against him, heart spilling over with sorrow and love when Jared cuddles back and draws Jensen's hand over his waist.

They're not going to talk about it tonight; they might not for days or weeks yet. Jensen doesn't mind. He's got nowhere better to be, nothing better to do, and he'll be here when Jared's ready. Just like Jared will be waiting for him.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read the copious end notes, please go [here](http://veronamay.livejournal.com/626608.html?style=mine). There's a soundtrack download and a podfic link too, if that's your thing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In Nomine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10142135) by [Shadowcat221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcat221b/pseuds/Shadowcat221b)




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